


Only True in Fairy Tales

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Torture, Rescue Missions, Slow Build, not as dark as the tags make it sound I swear!, only vaguely connected to reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-03-26 17:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 110,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dorian is a special forces operative, Bull is his partner, and Cullen is the guy they're sent to rescue.  Hijinks ensue.</p><p>Written because I wanted a story where Dorian rescues Cullen from physical danger.  Because I like rescue-fic, and mainly what I've seen is the other way around (Cullen rescuing Dorian).</p><p>In the name of not leading people on...The E rating is for eventually (cf "slow burn" tag above): I'd say this is T rated until chapter 15, and it doesn't need the E rating until chapter 25.  Just so's you know!</p><p>ETA: <a href="http://pavusprince.tumblr.com/post/141003118833/a-small-thing-inspired-by">ART!!!</a> Because there are few things I like better than badass Dorian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I've Just Seen a Face

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Only True in Fairy Tales](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394233) by [SeekinTroubles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekinTroubles/pseuds/SeekinTroubles)



> This is supposed to be a trashy romance, only lightly (VERY lightly) seasoned with reality, because I love me some trashy romance and I need some right now. I'm going to be deliberately vague and hand-wave what I can, but my "research" for this story mainly involves hanging around too many retired military guys. Google is my friend (in other words, I'm making stuff up all over the place). If you see something I've messed up, feel free to point it out, and I'll probably fix it (or ret-con it) at some point.
> 
> The story starts a little dark, but I promise it's not staying there. Picture a Cullen who got some decent therapy after Kinloch Hold.
> 
> I have the last three chapters of this already written, so I know exactly where it's going, but I also have no idea how to get from where I am to where I need to be. Updates may be slow for a while, until I can get some momentum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from "I've Just Seen a Face" by The Beatles, mainly for the refrain:
> 
> Falling, yes I am falling  
> And she keeps calling  
> Me back again

He lies on the concrete floor and studies the darkness behind his eyelids, trying to remember who he is. The pain and the drugs between them are doing a damn fine job of hiding it, but he knows he'll get there, just like he got there last time, and the time before. Start with his name. Everyone has a name, right? And he's someone, so he has a name, too.

Whatever it is.

Outside his cell, the sun is rising, turning the darkness pink even through his closed eyes. The tiny window is more of a break in the cinderblock that someone decided would be cheaper to slap bars into than fix, but it lets in enough light to tell him roughly what time it is and how long he's been lying here. Not that it much matters whether it's 6 AM or 3 PM. It's not like he's got somewhere to be.

A commotion in the hallway outside penetrates the fog in his head. He listens to it approach, not curious enough to move until someone laughs. That pops his eyes open fast, because it's entirely the wrong kind of laugh. Actually, it's entirely the right kind of laugh under normal circumstance, but his current circumstances are hardly normal. In these circumstances? It's wrong-with-a-capital-R. It's not a manic laugh that might as well be sobbing, and it's not a nervous giggle hoping to slip by unnoticed. This is the full-body laugh of someone who's just heard the funniest damn joke of his life and is hoping someone will ask what it is so he can share.

 _What's your name?_ he asks himself again, trying to concentrate, but when he hears another laugh like the first, curiosity wins over exhaustion and pain.

Getting to his feet is a production, one whose actors and crew have all gone on strike. Roll over. Put hands under shoulders. Push. Push harder. Ignore the pain. One knee up. Then the other. Push again. Grab the wall for support.

On his knees, leaning heavily against the wall, he seriously considers letting gravity take over to drop him back to the floor. Is this really worth it? His curiosity insists that it is, while his body insists that it isn't. He knows curiosity has gotten him in trouble in the past even if he can't remember how any more than he can remember his name.

"Up," he whispers, and lurches to his feet.

The wall is a good friend, and he takes advantage of it, circling the cell rather than crossing it directly, so he can keep one hand on the cinderblocks. Not that the cell is large whichever way he goes, but he really doesn't want to arrive at the door face first. By the time his staggering steps have carried him around, his head has mostly stopped spinning and he presses his face to the bars on the door's tiny window without cracking his skull against them.

Just in time to watch the strangest procession he's seen since he came here. Or at least, he thinks it's the strangest, though he'll have to check back once he remembers who he is. Maybe he has seen something stranger?

 _Whatever,_ he tells his rambling thoughts. _Stick with strange, not strangest._

The guards are bringing in another prisoner. That, in and of itself, is not terribly strange; he's seen a few come and go (hasn't he?) in his time here. The new prisoner is already wearing the same scrubs as the rest of them, and his hands are cuffed behind his back, his feet bare and his ankles manacled so he's limited to an old-man shuffle. He's fucking gorgeous, even with a black eye and a split lip and a thin mustache that doesn't look nearly as ridiculous as it should, but that's not what's so interesting.

What makes him so strange (strange, stranger, strangest?) is the grin on his face and the swagger in his step. Who swaggers wearing manacles? Who _could_ do it, let alone would want to?

This guy, apparently.

He has to be high, even if his gaze is sharp as it takes in his surroundings. There's no other explanation for it, because nobody sober would turn to the guard holding his left arm and crack a joke, not in a place like this. The guard on the receiving end of the joke is also clearly a little alarmed by the lunatic he's escorting, his eyes jumping left and right as if in search of someone who will sympathize with him for being stuck with a prisoner who doesn't know his lines.

 _Doesn't know his lines._ The phrase reverberates in his head, like it means something, like it's a clue to the name he's forgotten he was trying to remember. There's a play. Yes. Sets, actors, a stage. Not his job...a hobby. He presses his forehead harder against the bars as the new prisoner is escorted into the cell directly across from him and left there. The guards look decidedly relieved as they walk away.

"Pssst!" The new guy is smiling at him, face against the bars of the window of his own cell door. "Name's Randle P. McMurphy. You?"

And just like that, everything snaps back into place. "Cullen Rutherford." He blinks in surprise and momentary confusion, like he's just woken up and someone flicked on the lights.

"Pleasure," McMurphy says, which really isn't helping Cullen's disorientation. This isn't a fucking cocktail party.

Cullen takes a deep breath, and a few more things float to the top of his brain. Randle P. McMurphy? A snort slips out. Yeah, right. "Watch out for Nurse Ratched," he says, and is rewarded with a grin that's probably illegal in fifteen states. Not that it will matter, if neither of them ever makes it back state-side.

"Pssst!" McMurphy (or whoever he is) is watching him intently, and Cullen realizes he's clenching his jaw, thinking about being stuck here for the rest of his life. "Fuck 'em, right?"

Easy for him to say. He's been here five minutes. Cullen's been here... "What's today?"

"Not sure. I was out for a while. April eighth or ninth."

More than three weeks. Not so long, in the grand scheme of things. Not seven months, not yet.

 _I don't know if I can do this again,_ he thinks. The trembling starts in his hands, working its way up his arms and into his chest.

"Rutherford!" McMurphy's not smiling now. His eyes are intent on Cullen's, who finds himself trying to decide what color they are. Not that the shitty lighting in the hallway is great for that, but he'd rather think about a hot guy's face than about how long he'll be here. "What-"

From the far end of the hallway, out of sight, one of the guards yells, "No talking."

Real fast and with another grin, McMurphy says, "Picture 'em naked," like that stupid advice from some public speaking class is going to help against men with guns.

 _I'd rather picture you naked,_ Cullen thinks. McMurphy's grin turns to a smirk, as if he's read the thought right off Cullen's face, and then he drops out of sight.

Cullen lets himself slide down the door, turning as he goes so he ends up sitting against it, forehead on his knees and arms wrapped loosely around his shins. Three weeks. Fuck.

But at least he has a name again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occurred to me that plenty of people might not have had this book as required reading in high school, so if you're wondering who the hell Randle P. McMurphy and Nurse Ratched are, they're from _One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest_ by Ken Kesey.


	2. Madness Kissed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A demon's day in madness kissed  
> I swear I never had it like this  
> Forbidden yet I cannot resist
> 
> Melissa Etheridge, "Resist"

Lacking anything else to call the new guy, Cullen thinks of him as McMurphy, and thinks of him a lot. Thinking about him beats the fuck out of thinking about how hungry he is, or how much he hurts, or how long he's been here. It's also better than wondering when they'll come for him again, or when they'll decide to drop him in some dark hole and leave him. He never used to be afraid of the dark, but...

_McMurphy. Think about McMurphy._ He picked a good alias, that's for sure. RPM. It suits him, even if he doesn't look the least bit Irish. Italian, maybe? Whatever his ancestors' country of origin, he sounds like a Brit, with a touch of something else Cullen can't identify, but his word choices are pure white-collar Yankee. At least he doesn't have one of those nasal accents that sound like the speaker's allergies are flaring up. Not that it really matters where he's from, but it gives Cullen something to think about.

And he seems hell-bent on providing Cullen with plenty to think about. Watching him, or listening to him, is like watching a train jump the rails and then somehow, miraculously, land back on the tracks and keep right on going. Within a day, he's figured out which guards will talk to him, which guards will punch him, and which guards will punch him and then kick him in the kidneys when he's down, _and_ he does it without actually getting kicked. Which puts him one...okay, three...up on Cullen in that regard, whose back still twinges from the last time.

Cullen spends a lot of time either peering out the window in his door and watching McMurphy, or leaning against the wall right beside it and listening to him. The guy flirts with _everyone_. Male, female, guard, prisoner, doesn't matter. Not that there are many women around, but there are a few among the crew who bring food, and a woman with medical training (Cullen refuses to call her a doctor) who comes by occasionally to make sure no one's going to die by accident.

The not-a-doctor shows up to check McMurphy over near the end of his first day. Cullen listens to the doors opening and closing, locks turning, booted feet coming and going, and is just glad they're not there for him. McMurphy takes it all in stride, though, and as soon as the hallway is empty again, he whispers, "Pssst, Rutherford!"

Cullen, sitting against his cell door once more, doesn't answer. He's not interested in earning himself a beating, and some of the guards will take any excuse.

Unfazed, McMurphy says, "You didn't tell me Nurse Ratched was hot."

It's impossible not to smile, even if he shakes his head while doing it.

"If you're not going to answer to Rutherford," McMurphy continues, "I could call you 'Chief' instead."

It hurts to get up, but the need to see McMurphy's face is stronger than the need to avoid pain. He grunts, using the door to pull himself to his feet, and puts his face to the bars. McMurphy is grinning at him.

"Chief it is, then," McMurphy says.

"You ever read that book?" Cullen asks. "Or see the movie?"

"It was required reading, one year in high school. One of the few books they made us read that I actually enjoyed."

"So you know McMurphy dies, right?" Cullen's not sure why he's trying to bring the guy down, except that he feels like he needs to do it before the guards do.

"Sure," he says, tilting his head back and forth in a no-shoulders shrug. "But what do you care? The Chief lives." His smile hasn't faltered. "Besides, I can learn from my namesake."

"Quiet!" one of the guards yells, and Cullen hears keys jingling as he comes toward them.

Cullen turns away from the window a little too quickly, banging his head on the wall as he flattens himself against it. He's still blinking to clear the stars from his vision when the guard stops between their cells.

"No talking," he says, stern but not angry. Cullen recognizes his voice, knows him for an older man, maybe in his fifties, one of the guards who's never hit him.

"Hey," McMurphy says, and Cullen realizes with a start that he's talking to the guard.

"No talking," the guard says, and there's a sound like he's kicked the door to McMurphy's cell.

"Please." McMurphy says, talking fast. "I just want a cigarette. Just one. Please."

_Of all the damn fool things to say._ Cullen shakes his head. Whether McMurphy needs his fix or not, telling the guards exactly how they can torture him is just fucking stupid.

The silence in the hallway goes on longer than Cullen expected, and he risks peeking around the edge of the window. The guard's back is to him, and McMurphy is staring at the guy like he's got the last cigarettes on the face of the planet. Which he kind of does, for anyone in this prison.

And then, to Cullen's complete and utter amazement, the guard digs in his shirt pocket and produces a pack of cigarettes. He taps it a couple times against the heel of his palm and then pops one out with a practiced flick. He puts it in his own mouth and lights it, then offers it to McMurphy, staying back as if afraid he might somehow be grabbed through bars spaced barely wide enough to let fingers through.

McMurphy puts the cigarette in his mouth and takes a long, deep pull, eyes closed. Cullen has always hated the smell of cigarettes, but he has to admit the guy looks pretty sexy like that, and the smoke trickling from his nostrils actually makes it sexier. The guard doesn't move away, and when McMurphy opens his eyes, Cullen sees the guard's shoulders stiffen. It's a small movement, one he wouldn't have seen if he wasn't two feet away with a clear view, but as Cullen watches the guard watch McMurphy smoke, he begins to suspect a few things about the man. McMurphy, for his part, doesn't take his eyes off the guard as he smokes the cigarette with all the enjoyment of a man getting his dick sucked. He does everything but moan and shout, "Yes, yes, yes!"

Only when the unfiltered cigarette has been smoked down to a stub that's in danger of setting McMurphy's mustache on fire does the guard move, shifting his weight and taking a deep breath. McMurphy grinds out the stub and hands over the evidence. The guard's a lot less careful about staying back this time, and his fingers brush against McMurphy's as the tag end of the cigarette changes hands. McMurphy smiles at him, a tiny, private smile that makes _Cullen_ blush.

He ducks out of sight before the guard turns away, not wanting to get caught staring. Once the guard's footsteps have trailed off, he sticks his head back up, but McMurphy is gone.

###

A week goes by like that, McMurphy calling Cullen "Chief" and flirting casually with everyone while he flirts with intent with that one guard. One cigarette in the morning, one in the evening, when the guard's on duty. Which seems to be more often than in the past, and Cullen wonders if he's trading with someone else to get more time down here.

Despite everything, Cullen feels kind of sorry for the guard. It helps that the guy has never been a dick to him. This is definitely a part of the world where gay is not okay, and McMurphy's attention would be riveting under any conditions. Here, where men don't flirt with other men, and absolutely don't smoke a cigarette while looking at you like they want to be sucking something else? Yeah. Cullen remembers growing up in the ass-end of nowhere, and the first time he went to a club in a big city. The club scene wore thin real fast, but he remembers what it felt like the first time, wanting so bad and still half-convinced someone was going to smack him down for it.

Watching McMurphy seduce the guard is entertaining, even if it's reality-TV kind of entertaining, and the man's got an uncanny knack for knowing when someone else is headed their way. The guard figures that out, too, and Cullen can see him begin to rely on McMurphy's quiet warning rather than on his own senses: hearing and sight, not to mention self-preservation. By the end of the week, the guard's making no effort to stay back, and McMurphy is taking the cigarettes from him at roughly the speed of the average glacier, stroking his fingers across the guard's palm, the only thing he can reach through the bars.

What's especially interesting to Cullen is that not once during any of these exchanges does McMurphy so much as glance across the hall at him. He has to know Cullen is watching them, and looking his way would be natural, but he never takes his eyes off the guard's. Twice after the guard has left, Cullen looks back out the window in time to catch McMurphy's eye. Both times, McMurphy blows him a kiss. The first time, Cullen just stares, but the second, he shakes his head and blows one back, unable to keep from smiling. It gets him another illegal-in-fifteen-states grin, and Cullen revises his original estimate. More like thirty states.

It feels weird to smile, the expression pulling on the scar that cuts into his upper lip. Weird, but good. And the next time they take him away, when they bring him back, McMurphy is there whispering "Chief?" until he remembers who he is.

It's nice while it lasts, but at the end of the week, something goes wrong. The train jumps the rails again, and this time, there's no miracle to save it.

Cullen's asleep when it happens, so he doesn't know exactly what McMurphy screwed up. There was definitely some miscalculation, though, because he wakes to the sound of shouting, and someone getting a beating. He's pretty familiar with the sound of fists and feet meeting someone's soft parts, and with the recipient's accompanying groans. He hates that it's McMurphy he hears begging for it to stop, but a part of him knew this had to come. This isn't an American prison, and these guys don't have to give a shit.

Lying on his back listening to McMurphy beg, Cullen doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to hold out. He's not even sure it's worth it, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as dark as it's gonna get, I swear!
> 
> It's been a very writer-y day, and my eyes are now crossing. Time to go spend time with my wife, before she starts asking awkward questions like, "Who are you? Do you live here or something?"


	3. I Want You to Want Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you to want me  
> I need you to need me  
> I'd love you to love me  
> I'm begging you to beg me
> 
> Cheap Trick, "I Want You to Want Me"  
> ***  
> I keep going back and forth on whether this chapter needs a trigger warning, given the overall fluffiness of everything else about this story. So...details in the end note, if you're concerned.

The next morning, the guard Cullen has started to think of as McMurphy's comes down the hallway. Cullen doesn't need to look to know it's him: there's a spring in the guy's step, like he might start to skip if he doesn't watch himself. That almost-skip stops right outside McMurphy's cell, but there's no sound from inside, no soft laugh or murmured greeting of polite words matched with a tone that says, "Fuck me now."

Cullen strains to hear. The guard is shifting around, maybe toying with his keys by the jingling. He mutters something Cullen can't hear, and then there's the distinctive sound of a key sliding into its lock, and the lock turning. Cullen's eyebrows go up, then immediately come back down when that pulls the new cut above his eyebrow. The urge to get up and look out the window is strong, but he doesn't want to risk doing anything to make the guard change his mind about whatever act of kindness he's considering.

The guard isn't in the cell long before he comes back out, locking the door carefully behind him. His footsteps are a lot heavier this time, and Cullen can't really blame him. Seeing, or hearing in his case, McMurphy beaten down isn't doing anything for his mood. It's probably doing even less for McMurphy's.

Cullen's eyebrows go up again when he hears footsteps less than half an hour later. Two sets, this time. He's pretty sure one is McMurphy's guard. The other set is lighter, maybe a woman's. Both sets stop in the hallway between his and McMurphy's doors.

He gets to his feet slowly, sliding along the wall until he's right beside the door. When he's reasonably sure both of the people in the hallway will be looking in the opposite direction, he darts a quick look through the window before flattening himself out of sight once more. It _is_ McMurphy's guard, and he's brought the not-a-doctor with him.

They're in the cell a lot longer this time. Cullen can hear their voices, but he doesn't speak the language, some local dialect probably spoken by sixteen people out of seven-odd billion. There's nothing from McMurphy, and his stomach rolls at what that might mean. When the guard and the not-a-doctor emerge, it doesn't sound as if the guard is carrying anything heavy enough to be a body, but for the next day and a half, that's all the reassurance Cullen gets. He doesn't realize how much it's weighing on him until the afternoon of the second day, when he hears McMurphy's voice again, weak and strained as he answers some question the not-a-doctor has asked him.

Having regained consciousness, McMurphy's recovery stalls out. Days pass, but his voice never gets any stronger. Cullen finds himself hanging around by the window in his door, just hoping to get a glimpse of him, with no luck. It isn't until the morning of the sixth day after the beating that there's a real sign McMurphy is actually getting better.

Cullen is sitting on the floor, leaning sideways against the wall, ear resting on the crack between the door and the jamb because it's not too uncomfortable and it lets him hear without being seen. He hears the guard go into the cell, the door left open behind him, presumably so he can hear if anyone's coming. For the first time, Cullen wonders where the other guard for the shift is. He knows there's at least two around at all times, but McMurphy's guard is always the one coming down their hallway.

And certainly the only one going into McMurphy's cell.

At first, he can't hear what's being said across the hall, only hear the guard's voice asking questions and McMurphy answering. Cullen can fill in their lines--"How are you feeling?" "Like shit."--so he's only half listening when the guard's voice suddenly rises to a loud whisper.

"You are hurt!"

Cullen frowns. It's such a stupid thing to say that he knows he's missed something.

"Stop!" the guard hisses, sounding panicked. "You are hurt!"

"I'm fine," McMurphy says, then grunts in pain.

"See? You are not fine! Lie down!" The sounds that follow are difficult to follow, but Cullen assumes the guard is trying to push McMurphy down.

"I will if you lie down with me," McMurphy says, and Cullen's eyes fly open.

"I can't!" the guard says, and Cullen notices what he doesn't say. Not "I don't want to" or just "No." Suddenly he knows exactly what's going on over there, and his face catches fire.

"Please," McMurphy says. "You didn't have to do any of this. You didn't have to help me. Let me..." His voice drops lower, and Cullen can't hear the rest of what he says, but he can make a few guesses based on the sound of the guard's heavy breathing.

Cullen tries to imagine himself in the guard's place, with McMurphy at his feet asking to jerk him off or suck his dick or whatever other obscene act is currently on offer across the hall. He's ashamed to admit that he's not completely certain he'd be able to turn it down, even when he reminds himself to add bruises to his mental image of McMurphy. The bruises are a turn-off, sure, but the rest of it more than compensates. Even in his current state, where the thought of McMurphy on his knees can't bring more than a vague and fleeting interest from Cullen's body, he can't swear he'd be able to say no if he weren't literally starving.

The guard either has more willpower or is more afraid of getting caught. McMurphy's cell door closes with too much force, the lock turns, and the guard nearly runs down the hallway.

At least now Cullen knows McMurphy is doing all right. As all right as anyone here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for someone (attempting) to trade sex for help escaping. It doesn't go further than an offer, but if that bothers you, I'd just skip to the next chapter, because this warning tells you all the plot-relevant parts of this chapter.
> 
> And because I'm not evil, I won't leave it on that note: have another chapter!


	4. One Flew East, One Flew West

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from a children's rhyme in _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_.

A little to Cullen's surprise, the guard comes back at his usual time that afternoon and goes into McMurphy's cell. Voices rise and fall for a while, questions and answers from both sides, and once a surprised laugh from McMurphy. Cullen keeps waiting for the sound of someone getting off, but there's nothing like that, and no pauses longer than a few seconds before the guard leaves again, locking the door behind him.

Cullen has several hours to reflect on the fact that a guard in this shit-hole prison appears to be a better person than he is, at least in this one respect. It's not actually a pleasant few hours, and then they come to get him, in the middle of the night, to ask him the same questions they've already asked a dozen times, and those hours are significantly less pleasant.

It takes him most of the day to recall himself, without anyone to call him by name or even by a stupid nickname. Around midafternoon, he drinks the water they've left him, and the thin soup that's the only "food" he's had since he got here. It's keeping body and soul together, but that's about it.

He's lying on the floor watching the light from the window (the real window, not the one in the door) inch its way up the wall, trying not to think about anything in particular, when the cell door swings open.

His whole body squeezes, and a voice in the back of his head shouts, _No!_ Not so soon, they never come back this soon, but of course that's why they've done it...

"Hey, Chief," McMurphy says.

Cullen wasn't even aware he'd closed his eyes until he's opening them again to stare at McMurphy, who's looking a lot worse than the last time Cullen saw him, between the new bruises and two weeks' worth of scruffy beard. He's still the most gorgeous man Cullen's ever seen, though, because he's standing in Cullen's open door, dangling a set of keys from one finger and grinning like a maniac.

"I know you've just gotten your shit unpacked, darling," McMurphy says, "but let me take you away from all of this."

Cullen knows he's supposed to laugh, but adrenaline is making his skin prickle and he can't quite believe this is happening. It doesn't help that the drugs from early this morning are still clouding his mind.

"Get up," someone whispers from behind McMurphy, and then, when Cullen just continues to lie there staring, "Get him up!"

"Rise and shine," McMurphy says. Manic grin still in place, he tosses the keys casually over his shoulder for the guard to catch. Because that's who's standing behind him, face unreadable, head swinging left and right to watch the hallway.

When Cullen just continues to stare at him, McMurphy and the guard exchange a glance before the guard disappears up the hall and McMurphy steps in to Cullen's cell. He crouches low enough to sling one of Cullen's arms over his shoulders, his own hands on Cullen's wrist and hip. "Up and at 'em, Chief," he says, and Cullen pushes (mostly instinctively) as McMurphy pulls.

Once on his feet, he's fairly steady, and by the time they've taken a few staggering steps, his body remembers what it's supposed to do. "I'm good," he says.

McMurphy gives him the side-eye. "How good?"

"Good enough to walk."

"Can you run?"

The hopeful look McMurphy gives him makes him want to lie, but he's not stupid enough to do it. "Maybe later. Not...not right now."

McMurphy accepts this with a philosophical shrug that also slides him out from Cullen's arm. He keeps a hand on Cullen's wrist, clearly waiting to see if Cullen's going to fall over, but when nothing happens, he turns away. "Stay put," he says, and then he, too, is gone.

Not for long, though, and when he reappears, he's walking backwards, carrying something heavy and watching his feet carefully. Cullen flattens himself against the wall to keep out of the way, but he can't help staring as McMurphy's burden reveals itself to be one of the other guards, with McMurphy's guard holding the unconscious man's shoulders.

They've barely set their burden down before McMurphy is pulling off his prisoner scrubs. The other guard kneels and begins to strip his supposed comrade, while Cullen just stares and lets the wall prop him up. He's not quite so far gone that he doesn't notice the conscious guard watching McMurphy from the corner of one eye. Cullen follows his gaze just as McMurphy shucks his pants, and he can't help but notice both the muscled line of McMurphy's legs _and_ the lingering signs of his recent beating. The bruises aren't pretty, and Cullen looks away, too aware that he has his own matching set.

The unconscious guard isn't too much bigger than McMurphy, and a few careful tucks of the shirt make it fit well enough to pass a casual inspection. McMurphy's beard is still scruffy, but he washed his hands and face at some point, and the overall effect isn't bad.

"Okay, Chief," McMurphy says. "Time to play your part."

Cullen looks at him, and at the handcuffs he's holding up. The thought of being cuffed again is nauseating, but not as nauseating as the thought of being stuck here for another minute. He turns around and puts his wrists together. The metal is painfully cold, and he grits his teeth to keep from pulling away as the cuffs close, first one and then the other. The expected ratcheting noise is noticeably absent, and he frowns over his shoulder at McMurphy.

"Don't struggle too much," McMurphy advises him with a wink. "Be kind of embarrassing for both of us if those fell off just as we're walking out of here."

"I'm not going to die if you use real ones," Cullen forces himself to say.

"You might," McMurphy says. "If it comes down to a fight, I'd rather you could help, even if it's just by slapping someone." He puts a finger on Cullen's cheek and pushes his head around to face forward again. "Ready?"

Cullen nods. In front of him, the guard is looking surprisingly calm for a man who's risking his life for a couple of strangers. He says something in that language Cullen doesn't understand, the one all the guards have been using among themselves, and McMurphy answers him the same way, giving Cullen yet another shock.

"Fifteen minutes," the guard says, switching back to English and sounding apologetic. "All I can do."

"Ten minutes," McMurphy says with a grin.

"If something is wrong-" the guard begins, but McMurphy interrupts him.

"I don't need more than five, so ten is plenty safe enough."

If he can't live up to that boast, all three of them will be really sorry, though probably not for long. Through the daze of drugs and surprise, Cullen collects up enough brain cells to hope that McMurphy has a plan.

And then, in case he wasn't already reeling, McMurphy grabs the guard's face in both hands and gives him the most thorough kiss Cullen's seen in a long time. Cullen's mouth hangs open until he shuts it with a snap, but he doesn't look away.

The guard shoves McMurphy back, laughing incredulously, and points out the cell door. "Go!" That pointing finger moves to stab into Cullen's chest. "You take care of him!"

"Okay," Cullen manages, almost stuttering. McMurphy seems to be doing just fine on his own, particularly for a man who couldn't even get up without hurting himself yesterday morning, but Cullen doesn't add that.

The guard nods once, firmly. It's a nod that says, "Now that you understand I will personally hunt you down and kill you if anything happens to him, you can go."

It says a lot, that nod.

A laugh tries to escape Cullen's chest, and he tightens his throat to hold it back. He must be dreaming. He has to be, and it's going to suck to wake up, but he's in no hurry.

McMurphy takes a firm hold on his upper arm, and they set off. Two corridors over, they pass another guard who barely glances at them, his ear pressed to a walkie-talkie so old it belongs in a museum. It's still working, though: the agitated voice on the other end is loud and clear, no translation necessary. Somewhere, something is going very wrong.

Cullen keeps his head down as they walk, partly to hide his face but mostly because it's an effort to stay on his feet and moving. There are more guards, all as distracted as the first, and other prisoners shouting in a dozen languages. He ignores everything, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

Just as they reach the door to the outside, the cuff on his left wrist turns and goes slack, without quite opening all the way. As they step out into the sun, Cullen tries to push it tighter again, without drawing attention. McMurphy's fingers dig into his arm in warning, and Cullen wishes desperately for telepathy or ESP or _something_ that would let him communicate with McMurphy and no one else.

A hole in the ground appears almost under his feet. A victim of his own deliberate tunnel vision, Cullen tries to step around it and trips, almost falling to his knees.

"Keep walking," McMurphy says harshly, switching his grip to haul Cullen upright. There's a quick touch against his hands, the kind of thing a nervous guard might do to check that the cuffs are still holding, and the band on his left wrist presses back into his skin. The tiniest fraction of Cullen's fear eases off.

He's stuffed unceremoniously into the back of a truck, McMurphy following to cuff him to the bench that runs along one wall. Cullen suspects these cuffs won't open just because he wants them to, but it's impossible to ask with the rear door open and people walking by outside.

 _Head down,_ he reminds himself, pulse beating in his throat. The rear doors slam, and he tries not to panic at the sound of the lock turning.

The minutes drag until Cullen hears the truck's engine turn over. The bench under his ass and the floor under his bare feet both vibrate, and he presses his fingers into the panel at his back just as the truck starts to move.

It stops again, too soon, and Cullen closes his eyes to control his panic. _The gate,_ he reminds himself. Not that he saw it on the way in, but it's pretty much a given that there's some kind of fence, and a fence means a gate.

Through the partition dividing his section from the driver's compartment, he hears McMurphy laugh, and it's that same laugh from the first time Cullen saw him. How he can laugh is a mystery, when Cullen only wants to puke. At last the truck moves again, a slow amble that practically screams "Nothing's wrong here!" Relief does what the fear couldn't, and Cullen has to blink back tears. They're not safe, not yet.

The truck picks up speed. Not much, and the road conditions don't appear to have improved, judging by the number of times he's bounced off the bench only to be yanked back by the chains. His shoulders begin to ache from having his hands bound behind him, but he doesn't undo the cuffs, aware that there may be other checkpoints.

No way to know how far they've driven before the truck slows and stops. The engine cuts off, and Cullen straightens just as the rear doors open and McMurphy swings himself inside, still looking manic.

"All right, Chief?" he asks. "You can take the cuffs off now."

Cullen's fingers are stiff and awkward, and he's still fighting to free his hands when McMurphy leans over him to unlock the chain holding him to the bench. Way too close for comfort, McMurphy asks, "Want some help?"

It pains him to admit it, but... "Yeah."

Rather than pull him to his feet, McMurphy reaches behind Cullen's back to work the cuffs free. It's almost a hug, their cheeks so close McMurphy's scruff is tickling his neck, and he's ridiculously, wonderfully warm. Cullen barely controls the urge to move closer, drawn in by that heat. It's got nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the cold that's seeped into his bones over the last weeks as his body slowly shuts down. Knowing the reason he's so cold doesn't make it easier to tolerate, and this is the warmest he's been in weeks.

McMurphy steps away, taking his heat with him, and Cullen brings his hands around to the front, rubbing feeling back into his wrists and fingers.

"Up we go, Chief," McMurphy says, hand on Cullen's upper arm.

The drugs are continuing to work their way out of his system, and Cullen is able to do more than let McMurphy drag him upright. He steps out of the van under his own power, then winces as rocks bite into his bare feet. When McMurphy guides him down onto the truck's rear bumper, he doesn't fight it, but he also doesn't feel like he's in danger of falling over.

"Drink this," McMurphy says, pushing a cup into his hands before turning away. There's a bag on the ground to his left, and McMurphy starts pulling things out of it. _More_ things, since Cullen's pretty sure the M-16 now slung over McMurphy's shoulder didn't come from the prison, nor did the canteen sitting by his foot.

The cup in his hand holds some kind of diluted fruit juice, the taste made stranger by the chemical tang of the water underneath. It's too sweet, too salty, too metallic, too _everything_. Cullen drinks it anyway, tilting his head back to get every drop before collapsing the cup into its portable form, a series of concentric rings in a metal case.

McMurphy's made two piles beside the bag, and the rattle of the cup folding in on itself seems to be a signal, because he scoops up one pile and lobs it gently to Cullen, who actually manages to catch it. Which is more of a testament to McMurphy's aim than Cullen's coordination, something Cullen is only too aware of as he tries not to drop the cup or the bundle as he looks at what he's got. Clothes. Boots thump down on the gravel beside him, a pair of socks tucked in the top.

McMurphy is already half out of his stolen uniform. "You need help?" There's no flirting now, though he still looks like a dog on a leash standing in front of a closed door he knows leads outside. "Eager" doesn't begin to cover it.

"We'll see," Cullen says, and gets to work.

He gets his pants changed on his own, and it's not so bad to get help with his shirt and shoes. At least he can say one positive thing for his current state: his dick isn't going to embarrass him, even with McMurphy kneeling in front of him to tie his boots for him. Boots that fit surprisingly well, and Cullen's drugged brain begins to put all this together into something that actually makes sense. "You're here for me," he says.

"I'm certainly not here for my health," McMurphy says, slapping Cullen's leg to signal he's finished knotting the laces. His grin fades as he straightens, and he takes Cullen's face between his hands, much as he did with the guard earlier. Cullen's eyes widen, but there's no kiss this time. "Listen to me, Chief. This hasn't gone quite according to plan," a quick smile flashes across his face, wry acknowledgment of how rarely anything actually does, "but we've made it this far. I'll get you home if you can stick with me for the next few hours, but it's not going to be fun."

His face is all Cullen can see, he's that close. It's still hard to say what color his eyes are, sunlight or no sunlight: brown or gold or a strange pale green. Maybe it wasn't just the bad fluorescent lighting in the prison.

"Chief. _Cullen._ You hear me?"

"You're gonna take me on a fucking road march," Cullen says.

"Close enough. Keep up, but if you think you're going to hit the wall, say something before you actually do, okay?"

"Okay."

"Good man." McMurphy pats him once on the cheek before letting him go. Cullen smiles, it's so old-school British. Well, the words are anyway. He has trouble imagining say, Winston Churchill, getting that far into another man's personal space.

"Ready?" McMurphy asks. He's already stuffed the stolen uniform and Cullen's scrubs into the bag, and now he swings it up onto his shoulders, shifting everything around with a few practiced shrugs until the pack is settled and the M-16 in easy reach. He doesn't look anything like the prisoner Cullen first saw, or the beaten man he heard in the night, or even the lunatic walking him brazenly out of a prison in the middle of the afternoon. He looks like a soldier, like someone who might actually be able to pull this off.

Cullen begins to hope he'll make it home after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just re-watched Iron Man 2, and there's that prison breakout...yeah.
> 
> Also, the guard was totally supposed to be an asshole and get shot on their way out. Further proof that I'm not very good at cynical.


	5. Won't You Tell Me Your Name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I love you,  
> Won't you tell me your name?  
> Hello, I love you,  
> Let me jump in your game.
> 
> The Doors, "Hello, I Love You"

The next few hours are exactly as brutal as McMurphy promised, but also no more painful than the questioning Cullen's been subjected to over the last few weeks, and at least now there's a real promise of freedom at the end. Three months ago, he would have been able to keep up without breaking a sweat. As that's both annoying and irrelevant in the current circumstances, Cullen ignores it as he wheezes along in McMurphy's wake.

He has no idea where they're going, only that they're not getting there by a straight line. The terrain is hilly, full of scrubby bushes and rocks that provide plenty of opportunities to hide, as well as plenty of opportunities to trip. Cullen thinks he's managed to find all of the latter, and McMurphy seems intent on stuffing him into all of the former. It's not exactly quick, and it feels like they've gone less than a mile by the time the sun sets. Cullen's pretty sure he could still see the truck, if McMurphy was stupid enough to take either of them over the top of one of these hills, rather than circling around them.

At least he doesn't try to continue once it's dark, saving Cullen the embarrassment of having to admit that he won't be able to keep up if he can't see. He's barely hanging on as it is, and he's only too happy to drink more watery fruit juice and sit quietly in the tiny cleft in the rocks where McMurphy sticks him.

"Sleep if you want," McMurphy says. "Once the moon's up, we'll need to keep going."

Taking him at his word, Cullen dozes a little, the sleeplessness brought on by starvation countered by the afternoon's march. He wakes at the slightest noise, going back to sleep each time when McMurphy seems unconcerned.

The third time Cullen wakes, he's alone. Or not completely, he realizes as he looks around: the M-16 is lying just in his reach by his knee.

That scares him more than anything, but before he has time to really panic, McMurphy whispers from somewhere close by, "Chief? Don't shoot me, okay?"

"Okay," Cullen whispers, and can't quite hold back a sigh of relief when McMurphy appears around the rock shielding Cullen from view. "What happened?" he asks.

"Someone was following us," McMurphy says casually. His hand drops to Cullen's suddenly rigid shoulder. " _Was_ , Chief. _Was_ following us."

"Are you okay?"

"Me? I'm fine." McMurphy seems vaguely offended at the suggestion that he'd be anything but. "They're not, but that's somebody else's problem."

"You left me this," Cullen says, holding up the M-16, hoping it will somehow explain when he doesn't himself know what he's trying to say.

McMurphy grins. "Well, in the unlikely event there were a dozen of them and they somehow managed to get the better of me, I thought you could maybe use a friend."

"How many were there?"

"Just two."

"I didn't hear anything." How did he miss two people following them?

"I'd be pretty bad at this if you had." A knife appears and disappears, visible barely long enough for Cullen to see what it is.

Confused, Cullen frowns at him. "What? Oh. No, I meant I didn't hear them behind us earlier."

"Don't worry about that right now. That's my job. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other." His hand is still on Cullen's shoulder, and it squeezes tight for a second. "You're doing great, Chief. It's not much farther." He manages to sound sincere rather than patronizing, Cullen has to give him credit.

Walking in the moonlight is a lot harder than in daylight, and walking in the daylight wasn't exactly easy. Cullen starts to wonder how anyone could possibly miss them, the way he's stumbling and staggering. McMurphy, of course, makes no sound. The pack and the M-16 once more slung across his back, he's moving back and forth without disturbing more than the occasional pebble. He's also covering at least twice as much ground as Cullen, who just focuses on doing exactly what he was told.

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

_I had a good job and I left, that's right, left, that's right..._

They're climbing gradually upward: not cresting any of the hills, but still gaining elevation over time. Cullen looks up occasionally, mostly to check on where McMurphy's got off to when he hasn't drifted through Cullen's peripheral vision lately, and that's what he's doing when someone rises out of the bushes to his left.

And rises, and rises. The man is fucking huge, and Cullen's hand reaches instinctively for the gun he hasn't had in weeks.

"About fucking time!" the shadow whispers. McMurphy breathes out a laugh, and Cullen's hand drops from his non-existent gun.

"Miss me?" McMurphy asks, keeping his voice down.

"Yeah, but my aim's getting better." The guy looks at Cullen, who's given up trying to process any of this and is just standing there staring. Now that he's not popping up out of nowhere, the guy doesn't seem quite so big, but he has to be at least six and a half feet tall, with shoulders to match. His face is covered; in the moonlight, the only thing Cullen can make out are his eyes and a small bit of dark skin around them. "Doing all right?" he asks Cullen.

Cullen nods, then shakes his head, then nods again. The guy chuckles softly. "Yeah," he says. "Know what you mean."

The man Cullen's been thinking of as McMurphy waves one hand in the new guy's general direction. "Captain Rutherford, meet Captain Benjamin Ferris, also known as Bull if he's not up shit creek. Bull, meet Captain Cullen Rutherford, also known as Chief since he wouldn't answer to his own damn name."

It's a little strange to hear his rank again, especially standing on a hill in the dark, in the middle of nowhere, wearing borrowed clothes and still not sure he isn't dreaming. "Nice to meet you," he says anyway, taking a step forward to shake Bull's hand, which is large enough to swallow his entirely. Cullen adds, "So if you're only called Bull when you're _not_ up shit creek, isn't it Captain Ferris right now? Because I feel like I should be paddling."

Bull laughs. "Nah, this is nothing. Nobody's even shot at me yet, so it can't be too bad. Pavus and me'll get you outta here."

Pavus. Name or nickname? Cullen looks back at the man who isn't actually Randle P. McMurphy. "And you are?"

Bull laughs again, surprised this time. "Didn't your mama teach you to get a man's name before you let him take you anywhere?"

"I just swept him off his feet," McMurphy (Pavus?) says grandly.

"Uh-huh," Bull says. To Cullen, he says, "And since he's gonna be a dick about it, you can call him Sp-"

"Captain Dorian Pavus," Dorian says, very quickly, then goes on equally quickly, before Cullen can ask Bull to repeat whatever embarrassing nickname he was about to share. "Anybody following us?"

"There's a half dozen or so down by the truck, but they only sent the two after you so far."

Dorian smiles toothily. "Good. So they still think it's just luck we got this far. Any sign they know this was planned?"

"Not that I can tell," Bull says.

Cullen's barely following the conversation, but at least now he understands why Dorian packed up his scrubs and the stolen uniform before they walked away from the truck, not to mention a reason besides silence to use a knife rather than the M-16 to deal with whoever was following them earlier. "They know we're wearing boots," Cullen blurts out, then shrugs when they both look at him.

"It's a risk," Dorian allows, "but we decided it was more of one to have you walking barefoot."

"And your boots match what the guards've got," Bull says. "They know you've got one pair, and if we're lucky, they'll assume you swiped a second, too. If they figure it out in a couple days, so what? We'll be long gone. Only thing I care about is that right now, they don't treat this like it's serious." He shakes an admonishing finger in Dorian's direction. "And I want to keep it that way, so no playing with the toys."

"We never do what I want to do," Dorian says sulkily.

Bull pats him on the head with a heavy hand. "There, there. If you're good, I'll let you shoot the bad men later." He studies Cullen intently, then nods decisively. "You good for some more walking?"

Which is the point where Cullen realizes they were waiting for him to get his breath back. Another embarrassment in a long line of them. He shrugs it off. "I can keep going."

"Same rules, Chief," Dorian says. "You think you're going drop, tell one of us before it happens."

Cullen nods. "I'm good," he says.

"Oh I'm sure you are," Dorian says, then ducks the swing Bull aims at his head. "Hey, I'm just being sociable!"

Bull snorts. "The hell you say. Go put away your toys so we can move."

"You were the last one to play with them," Dorian says, in the same sulky tone, but he moves past Bull into the bushes where Bull was hiding earlier.

Curious, Cullen follows and finds him disassembling a sniper rifle set up in a nearly perfect spot. Even without the scope, it's possible to make out the abandoned truck in the distance, far below. Sitting here, Bull would have a perfect view of anyone following their trail, without leaving himself silhouetted against the sky.

Watching Dorian pack away the rifle, Cullen thinks he understands why Bull denied ownership of this particular "toy": there's an economy of movement as Dorian breaks it down that's impressive and intimidating at the same time. "Do this a lot?" Cullen asks.

"Now and again," Dorian says. He glances up at Cullen, his hands continuing to work. "Don't let Bull fool you. He's just as good with this as I am."

"Yeah," Bull says from behind Cullen, "but you got to have all the fun, so it's only fair you have to clean up."

"Because you would have blended in so well," Dorian says, returning his attention to his work. "Unobtrusive, that's the word to describe you. All six and a half feet of you."

"Six feet, eight inches," Bull corrects. "C'mon, man, I'd expect _you_ to be able to tell the difference between six inches and eight."

Dorian grins. "You know me, math was never my forte."

"Your fort?" Cullen asks, puzzling over the last word. "Oh. For-tay."

"Actually-"

Bull groans. Quietly, but with feeling.

"- _actually_ ," Dorian says with a pointed look, "the word in this context refers to the strongest part of a sword, in contrast to foible, and is properly pronounced fort. For- _tay_ is a musical term."

"For fuck's sake," Bull mutters. "You had to get him started."

Cullen squints at Dorian. "Have you always sounded like you're choking on a dictionary and I'm only just now noticing? Or is this a recent development?"

Bull...chortles. There's no other word for it.

"It's hardly my fault no one pronounces the word properly," Dorian says with a sniff.

Cullen wants a dictionary to check the pronunciation, but since he doesn't think he'll be seeing one any time before he forgets this conversation completely, he says to Dorian, "What makes you think you're less noticeable than Bull? In a different way, sure, but still."

"He's so good for my ego," Dorian says to Bull.

"Your ego doesn't need any help," Bull says. "You gonna fondle that gun or put it away?"

"You could make yourself useful and pour the Chief something to drink."

Which is how Cullen ends up with another cup of water flavored heavily with "fruit" and chemicals. He drinks it as fast as he dares, and by the time he's done, everything is packed away.

"All right," Dorian says, shouldering his pack and the gun case holding the sniper rifle. "Stick close, Chief. Not much farther."

He's said that before, but Cullen doesn't point it out.


	6. Get Out the Map

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get out the map  
> And lay your finger anywhere down  
> We'll leave the figurin' to those  
> We pass on our way out of town  
> Don't drink the water  
> There seems to be somethin' ailin' everyone  
> I'm gonna clear my head  
> I'm gonna drink that sun  
> I'm gonna love you good and strong  
> While our love is good and young
> 
> Indigo Girls, "Get Out the Map"

The sky is turning grey the next time they stop, and Cullen has a new appreciation for the phrase "dead on his feet." As soon as he realizes that Bull and Dorian are taking off their packs, he drops to the ground, not even bothering to pass through sitting before he's lying down. He's vaguely aware of Bull and Dorian talking in low voices, but it doesn't keep him awake.

He's not asleep for long before Dorian is there, gently shaking his shoulder to wake him. "Rise and shine, sunshine."

 _Not Dorian. Captain Pavus,_ Cullen tries to tell himself as he opens his eyes. He needs to put a little professional distance between them, think of the man the way he would think of any other officer. Which is kind of difficult when his brain keeps flashing back to McMur-...Dor-... _Pavus_ blowing him kisses through the bars of a cell door.

He struggles to a sitting position, Dorian ( _Fuck it,_ Cullen thinks) holding out one hand like he's worried Cullen might fall over. Which isn't unreasonable, all things considered, but he makes it upright without incident.

The sun still isn't up, the grey sky just a little paler than it was when Cullen closed his eyes. Dorian is kneeling beside him, digging through one of the packs now that Cullen is safely vertical. Bull's sitting against a nearby rock, his face uncovered as he gnaws on something out of a shiny wrapper. Probably not a candy bar, but it certainly looks like one from here. Cullen's mouth waters, and his hands itch with the need to snatch it away.

Bull notices Cullen looking and shakes his head. "None of this for you." A tilt of his chin directs Cullen back to Dorian, who's holding out another cup of liquid. It's not the same thing he's been drinking, that's for sure: it looks a noxious shade of yellow, though maybe that's the light.

Cullen accepts the cup and sniffs the contents, making a face as he does so. "What is it?"

"No idea," Dorian says cheerfully. "They handed me a bag of it and said, 'Mix this with water and make sure that's all he eats for at least the first two days.' And I, ever obedient and not interested in suffering the consequences of doing otherwise, intend to do as they said." He raises an imaginary glass to Cullen. "Bottoms up, Chief."

Wonderful. Cullen swirls the cup to watch the last granules of undissolved powder spin around, then takes a drink. It's possibly the most disgusting thing he's ever tasted, and when he persuades his tongue to crawl out of hiding, he says, "This tastes like shit."

"Chocolate-flavored shit," Dorian says, as if that somehow makes it better. "I tried a little, just for curiosity's sake, and I have to say I don't envy you."

"Can I go back to the bleach-flavored Kool-Aid?" Cullen asks. Bull grins, and Dorian's mouth twitches even as he shakes his head.

"Nope, sorry. This has protein and all kinds of other shit in it. It's good for you, or so I'm told."

Cullen looks at the contents of his cup again and sighs. "Breakfast of champions?"

"Not even close," Bull says. "No beer."

Cullen's rubs the back of his neck as he shakes his head, smiling. "Cold pizza," he says, then clears his throat self-consciously when he realizes his tone was almost reverential. He wants food desperately, now that the immediate danger is passed. It doesn't help that Bull and Dorian are both eating protein bars, while he's drinking chocolate-flavored shit.

"Heathens, the lot of you," Dorian mutters. "Everyone knows the only thing suitable for eating before noon is coffee."

"That's some strong coffee," Cullen says, "if you're eating it instead of drinking it."

"If it's not in imminent danger of crawling out of the cup, then it's not really coffee." His candy bar has disappeared already, and for the first time, it occurs to Cullen that Dorian hasn't been eating much better than he has over the last weeks.

"How come you get real food?" Cullen asks, bracing himself and taking another sip of his own breakfast. Yup, still disgusting.

"They weren't trying to starve _me_ ," Dorian says, extracting another shiny package from his pack. "And I got something extra to eat, the last few days." This is delivered deadpan, and Cullen looks at him sharply, trying to decide if the words are a double entendre or if they were said so flatly because there really is no emotion behind them.

Dorian lifts his head to take a drink of water and catches the look on Cullen's face. He chokes on his water, laughing and sputtering. Wiping off his face with the back of his hand, he says, "For once in my life, I actually didn't mean it like that. Really. He brought me food, that's all. Food food, not food as euphemism."

"This is a story I need to hear," Bull says, looking between the two of them. "I see someone left out a few parts when he was _briefing his teammate_." There's some teasing in the words, but also a hint of anger.

"Brevity is the soul of wit," Dorian says pompously, then relents. "It wasn't important. Plan B, that ended up working better than Plan A."

"I think we're on Plan F at this point," Bull says.

Dorian shrugs one shoulder in agreement. "So long as it isn't F for Failure."

When he doesn't go on, Bull stretches out one foot to poke him in the knee with the toe of his boot. "So what was Plan B?"

Dorian clears his throat. "There was a guard."

"There usually are, in prisons," Bull says.

"There was one guard in particular," Dorian says, enunciating the last word with a patronizing smile. The smile fades as he goes on, "He...wasn't what I was expecting. He showed me pictures of his kids."

"That wasn't all he wanted to show you," Cullen mutters into his drink, for reasons even he couldn't explain.

If Bull's eyes get any narrower, he won't be able to see. "Did you try to seduce the fucking-" He stops, a smile there and gone as he realizes what he was about to say. He tries again. "Did you try to seduce the guard?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. And it worked, didn't it?" He takes a bite of his second candy bar, and adds, "Sort of."

"Sort of?" Even Cullen, who's known the man less than twelve hours, can tell Bull is losing patience with Dorian's caginess.

Dorian must know it, too, because when he swallows what's in his mouth he gives a terse but accurate summation of his campaign against the guard and its eventual results. He also fills in the parts Cullen was missing, the most notable of which is that Dorian set out to get a beating, deliberately baiting one of the more short-tempered guards.

"Why in hell would you do that?" Cullen asks, when Bull doesn't.

"Lots of reasons," Dorian says. "Gave me a chance to see the doc, who our intel said was bribable. Also, nobody expects an escape attempt from a guy who can't even stand up to piss." He takes a thoughtful bite of his protein bar and adds, "Plus, nothing beats 'oh poor me, won't you be my savior?' for getting someone on the fence to come down on the side of helping you."

"And your friend needed a push," Cullen says.

"Exactly."

"If they figure out he helped us, they'll kill him." Cullen's just as happy to be walking free, but he can still feel a twinge of remorse for the cost.

Dorian frowns down at his dinner. "Not my favorite part of the job, but your life and mine against his? It's not the hardest choice I've ever made. And I don't think anyone will figure it out, not if he does what I told him."

"Which is...?" Bull asks, pulling the conversation back to his original question.

"Walk down the other hall a couple times, which is where he was supposed to be anyway, then 'wonder' what happened to the other guard. 'I didn't see him, but I just assumed he was down the hall or taking a piss,' that kind of thing." Dorian widens his eyes with faux innocence for a second, then grins. "I got some good drugs from the doc, so the asshole we left unconscious in your cell isn't going to remember a damn thing, and he never even saw me, anyway. He liked to take naps when he thought he could get away with it, so it's not like it was a challenge coming up behind him."

"His ass will be in a sling tomorrow," Cullen says. "Or today, I guess."

"If we're lucky," Dorian says, with a certain amount of glee. "He fucked up enough shit, it should keep all the heat aimed right at him. Besides, the asshole tried to kick me in the face."

"You picked a fight with him on purpose, and it's his fault you got the shit beat out of you?" Cullen asks, incredulous.

"No, of course not," Dorian says, polishing off the last of his dinner. "Still, he's the kind of asshole who _would_ beat someone helpless. Let me tell you, I didn't have to push him hard."

"How much damage did he do?" Bull asks.

Dorian runs his thumb under the fading green circle around his left eye. "He got a couple of good hits in, but nothing major. I know how to stage a fight."

Cullen rubs the back of his neck again, impressed. "It sounded real enough from where I was sitting."

"It hurt a bit," Dorian admits. "But I always did heal quickly."

"Good thing for all of us." A thought occurs to him. "Do you even smoke?"

"God no! Worst part of the whole thing, having to smoke those damn cigarettes. The things I do for my country." He winks. "And for you, Chief."

"Thanks," Cullen says, as dryly as he can. He takes another drink, trying to get it down before the liquid can actually come in contact with his tongue. He's only moderately successful and to distract himself from the taste, he asks, "Did he really show you pictures of his kids? The other guard." He knows Dorian knows which guard he means, but he can't resist adding, "The one you kissed."

Bull covers his face with both hands. "I can't leave you alone for a second, can I?"

Dorian ignores him. "Half a dozen pics, in fact. I'm still trying to decide if that's the best rejection I've ever gotten, or the worst."

Cullen wants to ask what, exactly, Dorian offered to do that got rejected, but he's pretty sure he'd sound exactly as interested as he is, which is way more than he should be. "Were the kids cute, at least?"

"Yeah, actually." Dorian shakes his head, a funny smile on his face. "I told him he should get the fuck out of this place, go somewhere people like us can actually live the life we want and not the one we're told we should want. Find some nice guy and be happy."

It's the first time Dorian's admitted to being gay, and Cullen gets a jolt of adrenaline. Almost everything else could be passed off as a straight guy confident enough and desperate enough to do anything, but there's no misunderstanding a comment like that. Cullen looks at Bull, who's eating his own second protein bar with no sign that any of this is even a little bit of a revelation to him.

"What did he say?" Cullen asks. "When you told him he should leave."

"He said it's not the life he wanted, but it's the one he's got. Said he's learned to be happy with it." Dorian shakes his head. "Don't understand it, but whatever."

"Gives me a little hope for humanity, though," Cullen says.

"Let's not get carried away," Dorian jokes, but that funny smile is still there. Pensive. He looks pensive, but like his face doesn't know how to turn off the smile even when he's thinking hard.

They're all quiet for a bit, Bull and Dorian eating, Cullen trying to drink without tasting. He finishes the cup, and Bull refills it with water smelling strongly of bleach. There's not likely to be anything worse in this water than what he's been drinking for the last weeks, but he's not going to argue with basic field safety.

Halfway through the second cup, he starts to drift again, sleep pulling at him insistently. His stomach is uncomfortably full, though he knows one cup of sludge shouldn't be enough to do that, and his brain is shutting down. Closing up shop for the night.

"Last call," he mumbles, then looks around blearily to see if anyone else heard him talking to himself.

He must have dozed briefly, because Bull and Dorian aren't where he left them. They've moved off a little ways and are talking quietly with their heads bent together over something spread out on the ground. A map, maybe? Cullen can't tell, and he's not curious enough to move closer. He tries to take another sip of water and almost misses, grunting in frustration as he pours a good bit on his chest before he gets the cup to the right height.

Something about the noise draws Dorian's attention. "You can sleep a little more, if you want," he says. "I only woke you up because you needed to eat."

"Still haven't eaten," Cullen says, not because he thinks he should have anything to do with real food, but because his brain has shut down all non-essential functions, rendering him completely literal-minded.

Dorian's mouth quirks. "Well, you'll just have to make do. The backpack's not the best pillow in the world, but it's better than this." He pats the ground by his knee.

Cullen doesn't need to be told twice, and since Dorian's pack happens to be conveniently right beside him, he slumps against it without rearranging his body and sleeps again.

###

He wakes around midmorning this time, the sun finally hot enough to penetrate his exhaustion. He's sweated through his shirt and all over Dorian's pack, and his hair is matted to his head. It's been a long time since he was warm, and a disgusted part of him wants to go back to being cold, if it means he doesn't need to feel this gross.

"How you feeling?" Dorian asks, and Cullen opens his eyes to find the other man sitting cross-legged beside him.

"How'd you know I was awake?" Cullen asks, staring at him. He didn't think he'd given any overt sign of waking.

"You made a face," Dorian says. "The kind of face that says, 'I just woke up in a pool of my own sweat.' Yeah, that one." He's smiling, but then, that seems to be his default state. "How are you feeling?"

"Completely disgusting," Cullen answers honestly, trying to sit up. His back reads him the riot act about sleeping in such a weird position for hours, and he stretches gingerly to the other side, hoping to appease it. "I'm too old for this shit," he adds.

Dorian snorts. "You can't be that old."

Is it Cullen's imagination, or is there more than idle interest in his tone? "I'll be forty next year," he admits, a little reluctantly. If Dorian is even thirty, Cullen will eat his own boots, laces and all. Most of the men under thirty that Cullen's met seem to think forty is time to be picking out a nursing home. Well, he can still fantasize about Dorian, at whatever point his body recovers enough for that to have any appeal, even if Dorian himself is about as attainable as a winning lotto ticket.

"Huh," Dorian says. "You look younger."

Cullen huffs out a laugh. He hasn't seen a mirror in over a month, but he doesn't need one to know he looks like shit on toast. "Nice try, but plausible flattery will get you farther."

"Is there somewhere to go?" Dorian asks, and his slight smile is suddenly wicked.

"Leave him alone," Bull says, and Cullen snaps his head around. Bull is a few feet away, unfolding something on the ground. A map? "He doesn't need you fucking with his head," Bull adds to Dorian, then says to Cullen, "It's just the way he is, man. Don't let it get to you."

So Dorian flirts with everyone. Which Cullen already knew, or at least suspected. Right. _Not personal, old man,_ he mocks himself. He knows he's not unattractive, but Dorian's in an entirely different league. _Twenty-something men who look like that don't want forty-year-old men who look like you unless they're looking for a Daddy._ Cullen has no interest in being someone's Daddy, and even if he did, Dorian doesn't look like he wants one.

As if any of it matters right now. Cullen shakes his head free of the bullshit, and says, "What's the plan?"

"Step one," Dorian says, uncrossing his legs so he can stand. "Now that we've got light, time to see how you're doing."

"How I'm doing?"

"Yup. Shirt off, Chief. Bull can do it if you'd rather, but we need to know how bad you're hurt."

"It's fine," Cullen says. "If you do it, I mean." He strips his shirt off as he stands, hoping that the two motions between them will hide his blush. Maybe he can pass it off as an effect of the heat. _Forty fucking years old,_ he reminds himself. He shouldn't be tripping over his tongue like he's still in elementary school.

There's no more teasing, at least, and Dorian's back to efficient professional as he pokes and prods. So much so that by the time Cullen's stripped down to his skin, the whole thing makes him feel exactly like he's getting a physical. The most thorough, low-tech physical ever, but still, just a physical exam. Dorian peers at every cut and bruise, looks in his mouth, listens to his breathing, even checks the bottoms of his feet.

They need Bull for that part, Cullen's balance not up to the task of standing on one foot, and he nearly falls even with a supporting arm. A supporting tree trunk, more like. Or a boulder. Whatever Cullen wants to compare him to, Bull doesn't move an inch when Cullen falls against him.

"Not bad" is Dorian's final verdict, said with a somewhat worrying frown. "A couple of these should be cleaned, but you can put your pants back on."

By the time Cullen's got his pants on and his boots re-tied, Dorian's back with a first aid kit, and he proceeds to clean and bandage with the same brisk efficiency he gave to his examination.

"So what does 'not bad' mean?" Cullen asks, to distract himself from the sting as Dorian works.

"You won't be running any marathons, but you're in better shape than I was afraid of. Feeling any better than when you woke up?"

"Just hungry," Cullen says. There's no "just" about it, but no point in saying so. They know how long he's been without food, and it isn't as if he hasn't done this before. The cravings will pass. Eventually.

Bandages applied, Cullen finishes getting dressed while Dorian mixes him another cup of whatever-the-hell-it-is. The main ingredient comes out of a plastic zipper bag and smells just as unappetizing in its powdered form as it tastes when mixed with water, but he drinks it anyway. Slowly, because no matter how much he wants to chug the contents, he knows it will be even less fun if the sludge makes a return trip.

"What's step two?" he asks as he drinks. At Dorian's raised eyebrow, he says, "If checking me over was step one, what's step two?"

"A lot of running all over fuck and gone." Dorian pulls out the map and lays it where Cullen can see it. "We're here." His finger touches down, then moves in an arc to a second point. "And we need to be here."

"That's a lot of walking." Cullen's not sure he could manage it in anything less than a month, not in his current state.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Dorian says. His finger retraces its route a couple times, back and forth, and Cullen realizes he's indicating a line of train tracks. "I'm not thrilled about trying to jump a train with you, but I think we can do it. When the train comes out of these hills, it won't be going too fast, and there's some good cover here," he taps a third spot on the map, close to their current position, "that should hide us when the engine goes by."

"And if we miss the train?" Cullen asks.

"Then it gets interesting," Dorian says. "So long as we're there by oh-two-hundred the day after tomorrow, we're fine. Otherwise, it's three days before the next one comes through, and I'd really prefer not to hang around here any longer than we have to." Dorian drums his fingers lightly on his knee. "Which makes this as good a time as any to talk contingency plans."

And does he. If Cullen wasn't still feeling thick as a brick from everything that's happened, he'd have no trouble keeping up, but his tired brain turns it into a struggle. Dorian and Bull between them make his head spin, then make him repeat it all back until he's got it perfect. Contingencies for the contingencies for the contingencies.

"Good enough," Bull says at last, and goes to fold up the map.

Cullen stops him by laying his finger on the page, following the train tracks and the curving elevation lines. "Where did we start?" he asks.

"Here," Dorian says, pointing to a spot that's depressingly close to where they are now.

"I really am slow as fuck, aren't I?"

"Well, we did some doubling back," Dorian says, but when Cullen gives him a look, he shrugs. "Okay, yes, you're slow as fuck. But at least you're walking. We came prepared to carry you, if need be."

"That would have been awkward," Cullen says. He glances at Bull, gauges his arms and shoulders. "Or maybe not."

"Strong like bull," Bull says with a straight face. "Where do you think the nickname came from? It's why they keep me around: I'm good for hauling shit."

"No, you're full of shit," Dorian says, pulling the map out from under Cullen's hand. "Don't let him fool you, Chief. If he tells you to run, doesn't matter how safe you think you are, you run like fuck. I've never met anybody who could assess a situation as fast and as thoroughly as he can."

"Awwwww, ain't you sweet?" Bull flutters his lashes, briefly and disturbingly. Then he laughs at whatever he sees on Cullen's face. "He makes it sound like magic, but it's not. I just pay attention and put the little stuff together. Everybody does it."

"Which is rather like Joan Sutherland saying everyone can sing." Dorian rolls his eyes. "While technically true in most cases, it misses the point."

"Joan who?" Cullen asks, and gets another eye roll, but no explanation. Eventually, he gives up on waiting and returns to the point. "Bull says run, I run. Got it."

"And keep these with you," Dorian says, handing over the map, now neatly folded into its case again, and a GPS Cullen hasn't seen before now.

"You made me memorize all that shit when you've got a GPS?" Cullen asks.

"No spare batteries," Dorian says with a shrug. "I told you this wasn't all going quite according to plan. If it craps out on you...."

Contingencies. Right. Cullen takes the map. "Oh-two-hundred the day after tomorrow?" he asks, squinting at the sky.

"You got it," Bull says. "So drink up and let's roll."

Cullen finishes his drink, tipping the cup back to drain the last of it. Disgusting it might be, but his stomach overrules his mouth and demands more. "How much of this am I allowed to have?" he asks.

Dorian quirks an eyebrow. "You're 'allowed' as much as you can choke down. Later, when we get to real food, that's when the restrictions start." As he talks, he pours more water into Cullen's cup, and adds some of the powder. Before he hands it over, though, he says, "Let me see your hands, Chief."

"My what?"

"Your hands." Dorian holds one of his own out to demonstrate: palm toward the ground, fingers spread. When Cullen mimics him, there's a fine tremor in his muscles that Dorian doesn't have.

"Hmmm," Dorian says.

"Yeah," Bull mutters, and Cullen takes the cup from Dorian, aware of the way the surface of the water trembles with his hands.

"Too dangerous not to, though," Dorian says mysteriously, and Bull shrugs a reluctant agreement.

It's all clear a second later as Dorian offers Cullen his MK 23, still in its holster. "Don't try to use it unless the shit has really hit the fan."

"I can shoot, you know."

"And when your hands aren't shaking, we can renegotiate."

It's not exactly a position Cullen can argue with. Still, he flexes his hands whenever no one's looking, trying to encourage the muscles to recover. He wants to be able to use a gun again almost as much as he wants to be home.


	7. 500 Miles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But I would walk 500 miles  
> And I would walk 500 more  
> Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles  
> To fall down at your door
> 
> The Proclaimers, "I'm Gonna Be"

It turns out that Dorian wasn't kidding when he said the next step was walking all over fuck and gone. They don't exactly set a hard pace, though, and Cullen's able to keep up without too much trouble. As they walk, either Bull or Dorian stays near him while the other ranges ahead and behind, muttering an "all clear" on the way by each time.

Other than that, and an occasional terse warning about some imminent terrain hazard, no one says much. Which is okay by Cullen, who needs all his breath for walking. They're trending generally down now, instead of up, still circling hills rather than cresting them, but there's no path and plenty of shit to trip over. At least this time they stop just after sunset and spare him the embarrassment of another stagger through the dark.

"No more today, Chief," Dorian says, dropping his pack. It hits the ground with a soft thump and a puff of dust that hangs in the air for a long time. "Make yourself comfortable, and catch some sleep while you can."

Cullen looks around. There's not much to distinguish this particular spot from any of the others they've passed today: rocks, dirt, and spindly plants that look as tired and starved as he feels. It may be a touch more sheltered than some of the places they've passed through today, but not by much.

Still, he does as instructed and makes himself as comfortable as he can after drinking two cups of dinner. He lies with his back to Bull and Dorian so he won't watch them while they eat, because he knows he'd just stare like a creeper. Unfortunately, the rustle of plastic wrappers is plainly audible, and Cullen's brain is only too happy to fill in details of foods far tastier than a protein bar.

Those details permeate his dreams, and not always pleasantly. He wakes from a dream of eating potato chips until he pukes to find Bull's hand covering his mouth and Bull's face hovering above him, a finger to where his lips would be if he didn't have his mask pulled down again. Cullen gives him a nod, and Bull releases him.

In the interest of silence, he lets Bull help him to his feet to avoid the scrabbling noise of kicked pebbles. Without speaking, Bull hands him a dark strip of cloth, which Cullen winds awkwardly over his head to hide his pale skin and hair. That done, he takes the smaller of the two packs and struggles into it without being told. There's no sign of Dorian.

The case with the sniper rifle is missing, too.

That's all he has time to see before Bull's hand on his shoulder gets him moving; Cullen thinks they're going in a different direction than they were during the day, but it's hard to say without a compass. They move at the pace of an arthritic turtle, one of Bull's hands always on Cullen's arm to catch him or guide him around some pitfall. Cullen knows what it means if Bull is more concerned with silence than with speed, and he puts all his attention on his footing, more careful than he's ever been in his life to mind where he steps.

Bull's hand tightens suddenly, pulling Cullen around so they're cheek-to-cheek. Voice barely audible even standing so close, Bull grabs Cullen's hand and presses it to the gun at his hip, whispering, "Try not to shoot me, Chief."

That's all the warning Cullen gets before Bull shoves him down behind a rock and takes cover himself behind a different one. Cullen draws his gun, painfully aware of the weakness making his hands shake. He's always been a good shot, but his body's definitely not cooperating right now.

About a hundred feet away, the shadows separate and a dark shape slinks forward, hunched over but definitely armed. Three more shadows follow, coming fast and quiet; quieter than Cullen anyway, if not quieter than Bull or Dorian.

From the corner of his eye, Bull makes a tiny motion, just enough to draw Cullen's attention. When he glances over, Bull holds up three fingers, points them at the approaching men, then at Cullen. Cullen nods and looks back at the approaching shadows, following the third one while he waits for a clean shot.

There's the familiar, if distant, crack of a rifle, and the first shadow goes down without so much as a cry. The other three stumble for a brief moment, become separate shapes, and Bull fires, taking down the second. Cullen takes his shot, aiming for center of mass and praying the close range will make up for his unsteady grip.

It's not perfect, but at least it hits, sending the man to his knees. Now that he's not a moving target, Cullen's second shot hits cleanly, right in the center of his chest. He falls over with a strangled cry while the last attacker falls as quietly as the first.

Ears ringing, Cullen looks at Bull, waiting for some kind of signal. Bull's upraised hand keeps him still, and the distant rifle fires a third time at someone Cullen can't see. Only then does Bull scramble to his feet, pulling Cullen up with him.

"Check 'em," Bull says quietly, pointing at the bodies. "We've made enough damn noise, so don't worry about that, just be sure nobody's getting back up." He disappears back the way they came.

Cullen's just putting a bullet between the last body's eyes when he hears Dorian call, "Chief?"

"Here," Cullen says, then adds with a brief smile, "Not going to shoot you."

Dorian pops out from behind a rock, far closer than Cullen would have thought he could get without being noticed, his face now also masked. He takes in the scene, eyes moving quickly from one supine body to another. He nods once in satisfaction. "Good. Where's Bull?"

"He went that way," Cullen says, waving the hand not holding his gun.

"I'm here," Bull says, and once again, Cullen is amazed at how close he's come without giving himself away. No one that large should be able to sneak so...sneakily.

"Find him?" Dorian asks, shoving the mask up to his forehead without taking it off completely.

"Dead as doornails," Bull confirms.

"Of course," Dorian says, and for a second, there's that same manic grin Cullen remembers from the prison. "I don't miss."

"Except that once," Bull says, and Dorian rolls his eyes.

"I'll never be allowed to live that down, will I?"

"Nope." Bull looks at Cullen. "You okay, Chief?"

"Fine as frog hair," Cullen says, feeling a little manic himself. It isn't until Dorian turns to stare at him that he realizes what he said.

Bull laughs quietly. "Nice to have another southern boy around."

"Yes, positively old home week, isn't it?" As he talks, Dorian kneels to inspect the closest body, shaking his head at whatever he sees. "Amateurs," he says with complete and utter contempt. "They sent fucking amateurs."

"Not complaining here," Cullen says, raising his hand like a kid waiting for the teacher to call on him.

"And sometimes amateurs get lucky," Bull points out.

"Not today, though!" Dorian says, jumping to his feet so fast it's like he's spring-loaded. "I didn't see anybody else, but let's get moving, just in case these assholes have a friend with more sense than they had." He looks over at Cullen. "How fast can you walk, Chief?"

"Just go," Cullen says. "If I can't keep up, I'll say something."

Dorian comes close enough to relieve him of the backpack. While he's there, way too close for comfort, he stares into Cullen's face. "You sure?"

"Sure I don't want to wait around for more company."

Dorian nods and steps back, shrugging his shoulders to settle the backpack. "Okay, Chief. That changes, let me know."

He doesn't wait for Cullen's nod, just takes off into the night. Cullen swears and starts to run, only to be pulled up short by Bull's hand. "He'll scout ahead, you just keep up with me."

That doesn't prove to be much easier, though at least Bull isn't going any faster than a brisk walk. Of course, a brisk walk for someone as tall as Bull is almost a jog for Cullen, and doing it in the dark is no easier than it was before. At least they've given up on silence for the moment, so the only thing Cullen has to worry about is falling.

It gets harder and harder the farther they go, but he grits his teeth and says nothing. He doesn't need anyone to tell him how important it is to get away from the bodies, and the place they were standing when they made all the noise. Not to mention Dorian's casual "oh-two-hundred the day after tomorrow" deadline, which is now tomorrow rather than the day after. Weighed against the possibility of being re-captured, Cullen's discomfort isn't that important.

Despite that possibility spurring him on, his body is close to its limits. They stop only briefly at dawn, just long enough for Bull and Dorian to bolt down a couple protein bars and for Cullen to drink two more cups of sludge, and then they're back on the move. Cullen can feel a weird shakiness starting in his chest. If there's another fight, he's going to be worse than useless.

By an hour after dawn, he's walking with his eyes almost closed, following Bull by sound as much as sight, pouring every ounce of concentration he can muster into lifting his feet up. Which is probably why he doesn't see the snake until he's almost stepped on it.

He twists sideways at the last second, and that's one demand too many for his body. Balance gone, strength spent, he falls. Not on the snake, at least, but down the hill, which isn't much better. He hits his head on a rock before he can bring his arms up, and the rest of the descent is a blur of nausea, blue sky, and grey dirt.

The world is still turning circles when Bull's worried face appears above him. By which Cullen deduces that he must have rolled to a stop somewhere, and the spinning is now internal rather than external.

"The fuck, Chief?" Bull asks. "You okay?"

Cullen takes the offered hand and lets Bull tug him to his feet, only to have everything slip sideways again. Bull catches him before he falls, setting him gently back on his feet. "All right?"

"Maybe," Cullen says, hedging his bets and not letting go of his grip on Bull's shirt.

"Sitting down might be a good plan," Dorian says from behind them.

A little to Cullen's surprise, Bull asks him wordlessly for permission, eyebrows raised. Cullen nods and lets Bull help him back down so at least he doesn't bust his ass. His head still feels like it's floating away from his body, so he keeps going until he's lying down, grimacing as a rock pokes the sore spot on his head.

Bull and Dorian whisper together for a few minutes, then Bull disappears around the hill as Dorian squats down beside Cullen. He's got his canteen in one hand, the cap already off. "If I help you sit up, can you drink this?"

Cullen does a roll call on his body, and the response isn't exactly promising. "Maybe in a few minutes."

"Works for me," Dorian says. He takes a drink himself before screwing the cap back on. "So what happened?"

"I lost my balance, trying to avoid the snake." He waves a hand in the general direction of said reptile.

"Snake?" Dorian asks, eyebrows drawing down in confusion.

"There was a snake..." Cullen trails off, suddenly uncomfortable. "I saw a snake," he amends, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun.

Dorian's fingers on his face are a surprise, but he's too tired to even twitch, and the pain that shoots through him as Dorian probes his head only makes him grunt. "Eyes open, Chief," Dorian says, and Cullen grudgingly complies, staring into the middle distance while Dorian squints at his pupils.

"Looks all right," Dorian says at last, and leans away. As Cullen lets his eyes close again, Dorian adds, "But just to be on the safe side, talk to me for a bit, okay?"

"I'm tired," Cullen says, and barely manages to keep it from being a whine.

"I know," Dorian says, and Cullen opens his eyes to find Dorian frowning pensively at him. As soon as he realizes Cullen's looking at him, his gaze moves on to a spot beside Cullen's head. "You got any family, Chief?"

"Yeah," Cullen says, trying to focus on the conversation. "Couple sisters, a brother. My parents, of course." He misses them like crazy, even though it's been years since he lived anywhere near them. Deployment's kept him out of contact for weeks at a time before, but there were emails, and the occasional package, and the even more occasional phone call.

"They'll be glad to see you." It's as much a question as a statement, and Cullen frowns in puzzlement.

"Sure," he says. He smiles, thinking of his sister Mia. "I won't be able to get rid of them, not after this. I'll probably go see them, save myself the trouble of having all of them underfoot in my place." His apartment is big enough for someone who's never been particularly attached to stuff and isn't around eight or ten months out of every year. It's funny and terrifying together, the thought of his parents and his siblings (who come complete with spouses and kids of their own) all crowded into a one-bedroom efficiency, and every one of them trying to take care of him without bothering to ask what he wants. "What about you?"

"I don't have any siblings," Dorian says. He says it like it doesn't matter, not too fast and not too slow, but Cullen recognizes a deflection when he asks, "Where do your folks live?"

"Bum-fuck, Kentucky."

"Really?" Dorian says, and he's smiling, the worried frown gone, even if he still isn't meeting Cullen's eyes. "I've heard of Lost My Hat, Texas but I didn't realize they had such interesting names for towns in other states."

Cullen smiles back, unable to do otherwise with Dorian smiling at him. Well, smiling at his shoulder. "It's a little town called Honnleath. If you've heard of it, then you're probably my cousin or something."

"Ah, you're all on the West Virginia plan, I see."

"I wonder how people from West Virginia feel about that joke."

"Probably not too happy." Dorian glances at him, then away again. "Kentucky, huh? I wouldn't have guessed. You don't sound like most of the people I've met who grew up in the south."

"Don't know what you're talking about," Cullen says with mock outrage. "It's all you Yankees who have accents, anyway."

"Damn Yankees," Dorian agrees.

"Where do you live?" Cullen asks, and gets another quick look from Dorian.

"Washington. The state, not DC. But I grew up in Boston."

"Then you're just a Yankee, not a damn Yankee."

The look is longer this time. "I didn't know there was a difference."

"A damn Yankee moves south and then doesn't go home."

Dorian smiles, and Cullen realizes he's been trying to get him to do that, like there's a prize if he makes Dorian smile a certain number of times. _A blowjob?_ suggests his brain, but his body's reaction to the idea is a disinterested shrug.

"Feeling any better?" Dorian asks.

"A little," Cullen admits.

They give sitting up a try, and it doesn't send his head floating for the stratosphere. He drinks some water, then manages to stand (with Dorian's help) and walk a little distance away (without help but with Dorian's eyes on him) so he can take a piss behind a rock (without help and without an audience). When he sits down again, he drinks some more water and even refills the cup by himself, though he spills some of it on his hand in the process.

"I hate this," Cullen mutters, wiping his hand off on his pants. "I can't even fill a cup without making a fucking mess."

"Yeah," Dorian says. "I was going to talk to you about it, because you should be back on your feet by now. I mean, Jesus, how long does it take to recover from a month of starvation and torture?" His eyes meet Cullen's, and he's smiling to show he's joking, as if Cullen could somehow think he was serious. "Kids these days. No stamina."

 _I'll show you stamina,_ Cullen thinks, but it's a knee-jerk reaction, an automatic adolescent response to the word more than any real interest in trying anything.

"A disgrace to the regiment," he says instead.

"Damn straight," Dorian says.

 _Not even a little bit straight._ Cullen wishes there was some way to smack himself in the side of the head without making Dorian think he's gone completely nuts. _Stop it,_ he tells himself sternly, and tries to think of some more appropriate response. No luck.

The silence gets a little awkward, at least from Cullen's point of view, though Dorian seems oblivious, absorbed in whatever he's staring at so intently. Cullen drinks his water and studies Dorian's profile through his lashes so he won't get caught. They're both still at it, Dorian studying their surroundings and Cullen watching him do it, when Bull comes back twenty minutes later.

He's just as quiet as he was before, and Cullen doesn't even realize he's there until Bull is dropping down to squat beside him.

Cullen has a moment of panic, wondering if Bull noticed him staring at Dorian, then remembers Bull's complete indifference to Dorian's "people like us" comment last night. Still, probably better to keep his drooling under control, even if Bull isn't going to scream "queer!" and run for the hills.

"Anything?" Dorian asks, taking a drink from his canteen.

"Nothing I could see," Bull says. He steals Dorian's canteen and takes a long drink before he adds, "Sleep a bit, Chief. And next time, say something before you're falling over, okay? This isn't basic training, and there's no bragging rights for going 'til you puke."

"I'd've been fine except for the snake," Cullen mutters, embarrassed by his own weakness.

Bull looks at him for a few long seconds. "There was no snake, Chief. There was a shadow that looked kind of like a snake, if you're so shit-faced tired you can't see straight anymore."

"Fuck." Cullen puts his hands over his face, and he knows Bull's right when his brain immediately starts slipping gears, like he's about to fall asleep. He drops his hands before it actually happens. "Sorry," he says, with as much sincerity as his tired body can muster. "I just know how important it is to keep moving."

"We'll go a lot slower if I have to carry you," Bull says, but gently. "Just because I _can_ doesn't mean I want to." He grins. "Or that you want me to."

Cullen imagines passing the miles slung across Bull's shoulders, and grimaces. "Yeah, okay, I'm sold. Scout's honor, I'll say something next time."

"Good deal," Bull says. "Now get a couple hours of shut-eye. We'll keep watch, but there shouldn't be anything to worry about."

Cullen's pretty sure Bull's lying about the last part, but he's too worn down to challenge it. "Can I get some sludge before I crash?"

"You gotta be hungry," Bull says, "if getting some of that shit is enough to keep you awake."

Cullen shrugs. What's he supposed to say to that?

Fortunately, Bull doesn't seem to be expecting an answer: he's already digging in Dorian's pack for the plastic bag of powder. The taste hasn't gotten any better, but Cullen drinks two cupfuls before curling up on the ground with his head cushioned on his arm. There's a rock digging into his hip, and the dust is making his nose itch. He thinks about moving, or pulling his shirt up over his face, except that someone's shaking his shoulder, and he opens his eyes to late afternoon sunshine, with no memory of anything since early morning.

The rock is still under his hip, and his throat is so parched that his first attempt at talking ends in a coughing fit. By the size of the hand clapping him on the back, it's Bull who woke him, but it takes a while before Cullen can stop wheezing and drag the back of his hand across his watering eyes to confirm this visually. At least he manages to sit up without help, the occasional cough still wracking his body.

A few feet away, Dorian sits cross-legged, watching the proceedings with a concerned frown. "I'm okay," Cullen says. Or croaks, rather. "Thirsty as fuck, though."

Bull dangles a canteen in front of him, and Cullen sucks down the contents greedily. When he has to pause long enough to breathe, he digs under his ass until he comes up with the rock that imprinted itself on his hip while he slept. It's a lot smaller than it felt like, and Cullen chucks it off to one side with a snort of disgust.

"Not exactly the Hilton," Bull agrees, as if Cullen had said something. "A few more days, and we'll at least be rock free."

Cullen takes another deep drink. "I am _definitely_ too old for this shit." He's pretty sure he could now serve as a demonstration on the healing cycle of bruises, between the succession of beatings over the last weeks, the fall down the hill, and the rock-shaped imprints he's no doubt acquired from sleeping on the ground. Maybe it's a good thing he doesn't have time to look himself over. It's probably damn depressing.

Still, he feels a lot better now that he did when he fell asleep, even if his stomach is once more complaining bitterly. Before he can say anything, Dorian's passing him a cup with the powder already in it. Cullen slops water on top and is inordinately pleased with himself when he manages to do it without spilling on himself. He drains the cup as fast as possible, then rinses his mouth with the last of the water in the canteen.

Only once he's finished does Dorian lean forward, elbows on his knees, to give Cullen an intent look. "Moment of truth, Chief. Can you walk for a few hours, or do we need to settle in here? This isn't the most defensible position, but it doesn't suck too badly, and there's nothing even this good between here and where we're going."

Cullen does another roll call, and gets a much better response than last time. "Give me ten minutes," he says, and manages to stand without help. He shakes his head in frustration. "I hate being this weak."

"Happens," Bull says. "Your body's got a limit, and I'm just amazed you made it this far."

"It's still fucking inconvenient."

"Yeah, well, not much you can do about it but give yourself some time."

Which is true, and still not helpful. Bull shrugs as if to say, "I know." Cullen returns the gesture and begins to walk in slow circles around the rocks, stretching his legs and swinging his arms until his joints stop aching.

At the end of his promised ten minutes, Cullen feels better than he expected, better even than he felt when he woke. Moving around shakes out the stiffness in his back and legs, and gets his brain back in the right gear. He's still not in any shape for a PT test or some calculus problems, but he's pretty sure he can follow Bull and Dorian without disgracing himself.

They take him at his word when he says so, packing up everything in under a minute, including their trash. Bull shoulders the heavier pack, Dorian the lighter, and Cullen, once again, is left with only himself to worry about.

If they're lucky, maybe he'll be able to avoid tripping over any more imaginary snakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that not everyone reading this is American (and even those who are don't necessarily have the same cultural touch-stones that I do), so I'm hoping y'all will rein me in if I start over-doing it on the cultural references.


	8. What Route I'm Going

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freight train, freight train, run so fast  
> Freight train, freight train, run so fast  
> Please don't tell what train I'm on  
> They won't know what route I'm going
> 
> Elizabeth Cotten (dammit auto-correct, I typed that right), "Freight Train"
> 
> ***************
> 
> I know _nothing_ about jumping trains (except that everyone on the internet wants to tell me it's dangerous and illegal; yes, thank you, I know that), and Google has let me down. If anyone happens to know anything about it and wants to correct me, please do. Also, explain to me why I typed "how to jump a moving train" and Google suggested I might be looking for "how to stop a runaway camel". What the actual fuck?

Either the afternoon's walk isn't as bad as the previous day's, or the twelve-ish hours of sleep have given Cullen more energy than he would have thought possible. Whichever it is, he keeps up without too much trouble, though he's starting to feel it by the time they reach their destination a little after dark.

Tonight's hidey-hole is an actual, honest-to-god cave, one that burrows into the hills far enough that Bull has to turn on a flashlight, the lens filtered red to save their night vision. The cave ends in a pool of water five or six feet across, and Cullen is only too happy to be off his feet. Sitting down is such a relief he lets out a groan of pleasure, stretching his legs out in front of him and letting his hands fall on his shins in the world's laziest hamstring stretch.

"Yeah," Bull says, dropping his pack, and Dorian mutters something that sounds like agreement as he lets his own pack hit the ground at the edge of the pool.

To Cullen's surprise, Dorian then wades right into the water, grimacing as it soaks his clothes. "Fucking cold," he mutters, then crouches to dig in the mud at the bottom. It doesn't take him long to reveal a bundle, sealed in plastic.

Cullen stares at it, then up at Dorian. "If that thing has an emerald hidden inside a tacky statue, I'm outta here."

Dorian gives him a strange look, but Bull laughs. "That movie was before his time, Chief."

"Thanks," Cullen says. "Because I needed to feel even older."

"Hey," Bull says, pointing both hands at his own chest, "at least you've got company, right?"

"Before you hobble off to the nursing home," Dorian says, clearing away some of the mud as he lifts the bundle out of the water, "could one of you geezers give me a hand?"

"C'mere, you damn kid," Bull says as he moves around Cullen, "let me hit you with my cane." Grinning, Dorian ducks the blow aimed at the back of his head and tosses the wet, muddy bundle at Bull with no warning. Bull catches it one-handed, giving Dorian a smug look as he does so without dropping the flashlight.

Dorian might not be impressed, but Cullen certainly is. He's pretty sure he couldn't have managed that even when he was in good shape.

Laid out on the rocks beside the water, the bundle turns out to contain absolutely no statues or precious gems. Instead, it has something much more useful in their present circumstances: besides food and ammo, there are three sets of robes, and a sealed bag of hair dye.

"I wondered what you were going to do about this," Cullen says, tugging on a bit of his untrimmed beard. He's a little too blond to blend effectively in this part of the world.

"Well, my preference would be to keep you out of sight completely, but since that's not really an option, you have an appointment with Lady Clairol." Dorian squints at the package in his hand. "Or her off-brand equivalent."

"I always wanted to be a redhead," Cullen says, just for the snort it gets from Dorian. "What? Would that stand out too much?"

"I'm told gentlemen prefer blondes," Dorian says with a smirk as he tears open the packaging.

Cullen makes a point of looking around. "I'm not seeing very many gentlemen right now." Behind him, Bull is laughing quietly to himself.

The actual experience of having his hair and beard dyed is a lot less amusing, and Cullen quickly decides he won't be repeating it in any circumstances less dire than the present ones. The chemicals stink and make his skin burn, and the whole process takes forever.

"It's not quite this difficult with a shower," Dorian says, when Cullen comments on how long it's taking. "Or at least a sink."

"And you'd know this how?" Cullen asks.

"He helps me dye mine," Bull says. He sounds so serious that Cullen believes him for half a second, before his brain catches up and presents him with an image of Bull's dark scalp, only lightly fuzzed with hair.

"One of my many talents," Dorian says. "And I am a man of many talents."

There's no missing the innuendo; Cullen would shake his head if he wanted to risk getting his hair pulled. He remembers Dorian's evasion earlier, when they were talking about family, and takes shameless advantage of the opportunity to try for more details. "Did your mother dye her hair a lot?"

"My mother never did anything so déclassé as dye her own hair," Dorian says cheerfully.  Eyes closed against the sting of the chemicals, Cullen can't tell if the emotion is real or feigned. "She had people for that." He wipes off a stray bit of dye from Cullen's forehead, maybe a little harder than necessary, and adds, "Hell, her people had people for that."

That piques Cullen's interest more than a little. In his experience, people with that kind of money only want their children to join the military if they're planning on having said children run for political office later, and Dorian's in entirely the wrong specialization if that's his end game. Politicians-to-be want flash and attention, not to be involved in the kind of ops that could lead to an unmarked grave (if they get any kind of grave at all) and a classified service record that ends with MIA.

Though that might explain why Dorian dodged the subject of family before. Curious, Cullen asks experimentally, "What's your mother do?"

"Do?" Dorian asks in mock-outrage. "She earned her money the old fashioned way: by inheriting it. And marrying it. Watch your eyes."

It takes Cullen a moment to realize the last part is an instruction to him, and he barely gets his hand up in time. The wad of cloth he's holding used to be part of his prisoner scrubs and he's not exactly thrilled about putting it against his face, but at least it keeps crap out of his eyes, and it's not like the rest of him isn't filthy anyway.

Water trickles across his scalp and cheeks for what feels like hours, the little that runs toward his eyes caught by the fabric as Cullen studies the insides of his eyelids and waits for this to be over. At last, Dorian tugs the cloth from his hand and scrubs it across his scalp and cheeks. He's vigorous enough about it that Cullen winces and takes the cloth back.

"I got it," he says, giving his face and head another quick pass. "Did it work?" From growing up with sisters, he knows that sometimes dye just doesn't take, and he'd really prefer not to do this all over again.

"Looks okay," Bull says. "Won't know for sure until it dries and we've got some decent light." He waves the flashlight, and its red filter, for emphasis.

In other words, they won't know for sure until after their date with a train in a few hours. Cullen tosses aside the wet and stained remnants of his scrubs and says, "So what's for dinner?"

"Beef," Bull says, "or so the American Cattlemen's Association would like you to believe." One hand snaps out, index finger pointing straight at Dorian. "Don't."

The very picture of falsely-accused innocence, Dorian widens his eyes and presses one hand to his chest. "I was just going to say-"

"I know what you were just going to say."

"-that a steak would be perfect right now."

Cullen stares at him, sort of impressed. "How the hell can you make that sound suggestive?"

"I told you I was a man of many talents." He digs out a protein bar and looks at it with disfavor. "And really, just about anything would be an improvement over the current meal plan." He digs through his pack again and tosses another protein bar to Bull and the bag of powder to Cullen. Bull has to catch both when Cullen's fingers don't close when he tells them to.

"Thanks," he mutters, embarrassed. Knowing what the problem is, and that it's nothing he can control, doesn't make him any less frustrated. It's going to be a long time before he can take his body for granted again.

He mixes his dinner without any mishaps, then stretches out on the ground to sleep for a while, snapping awake the second Bull touches his shoulder. "Time to roll, Chief," Bull says, holding out a cup of breakfast. The flashlight is in his other hand, the red filter making everything look like it's on fire.

"What time is it?" Cullen asks as he sucks down his ration of sludge.

"A little after one," Dorian says, and he's standing just at the limit of the flashlight, pack already on. "We've got some time, but I'd rather be in place early than late."

Cullen drains the cup. "Just like the army, always hurry-up-and-wait." Bull refills the cup with plain water, and Cullen drains that, too.

They give him just enough time to piss and re-tie his boots, then they're off again. This time, Cullen is trusted with a small pack, mostly containing the robes that were in the bundle Dorian pulled out of the pool last night. He suspects this third pack is more of a nod to his pride than anything else, that Bull could easily have carried all of it, but Cullen doesn't mind. At least he gets to feel like he's contributing _something_ to this effort.

Keeping up with Bull isn't as hard as he feared it would be, and it's good to stretch himself, to push his lungs and his muscles just a bit. Jumping the train, however, is way more than a bit of a stretch. Dorian swears it's slowed down to around ten miles per hour by the time they see it, but whatever pathetic shuffle Cullen can manage won't be anywhere near that fast.

"Is this a good idea?" he asks.

"Not as bad as it looks," Bull says. "You stay here and wait for us. Stay out of sight when the engine goes by, and count off thirty cars. When the thirtieth one goes by, start running like crazy, and look for me. I'll grab you if I can, and if I miss you, look for Pavus."

Cullen looks down at himself, and then at Dorian. Cullen's only a few inches taller, but even in his current wasted state, he probably still has thirty pounds on Dorian.

"Don't worry, Chief," Dorian says, "I'll get you there." In the moonlight, Cullen can see the smirk he wears until Bull smacks him in the back of the head.

"Quit fucking with him," Bull says, giving Dorian a quelling look, and Dorian actually looks contrite as Bull says to Cullen, "He's not going to drop you."

Which is all the reassurance Cullen is going to get, because the train is bearing down on them rapidly. Bull and Dorian disappear, keeping a hill between themselves and the train, until Cullen loses sight of them and switches his attention to the train itself.

The engine blows by with a roar, ten miles per hour a whole lot faster than it seems when he's riding in a car, and he starts counting. At twenty-five, he gathers himself, and at thirty, he runs for it. As he changes his angle to run parallel to the train, he catches a brief glimpse of Bull, leaning from an open freight door ten or so cars back.

Unfortunately, he doesn't see the hole in the ground until he's stepped in it. He doesn't break his ankle, but he misses Bull's outstretched hand and there's no way he's going to catch up. Dorian it is, then, and he just prays the man really is as strong as he thinks he is.

Then Dorian is there and grabbing on, both of Cullen's hands around one of Dorian's wrists as Dorian's other hand braces against something inside the train. The muscles stand out in Dorian's neck, his teeth gritted as he pulls, and Cullen pushes off with his feet, a running jump that tumbles him into the car on top of Dorian.

They're both winded for a second, but of course Dorian recovers first. Panting lightly, he says, "Well, this is nice," his grin audible.

Cullen blushes and rolls off him, lying on his back while his lungs and legs protest their abuse. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling and away from Dorian. That's pretty meaningless in the near-total darkness inside the car, but it lets Cullen feel like he's put a little more distance between them.

"Sorry," Dorian says quietly. Or as quietly as he can and still be heard over the train. "I say stupid shit sometimes, and I'm used to Bull, who just blows me off." A pause, and Cullen braces for another inappropriate joke, but when Dorian continues, it's not with a joke. "You can sleep for a while, if you want. We've got a ways to go." The door slides closed with a bang Cullen feels across his back and legs.

Despite the hour and the run, Cullen isn't particularly tired. He sits up and says, "Actually, I'm kind of hungry." He recognizes both symptoms from last time. Now that his body isn't quite so worn down, insomnia's going to ride him like a rental pony until he puts at least a few pounds back on.

There's some rustling, but the inside of the train car is too dark to see anything, and Cullen's not sure what's happening until Dorian's hand brushes against his shoulder. "Here you go, Chief," Dorian says, his hand moving down Cullen's arm. The touch is firm, no teasing now, but it still makes Cullen's skin prickle. It's almost a turn-on, which is so amazing Cullen forgets to ask him what the hell he's doing.

Then Dorian's hand finds his and presses the bag of powder into it, and Cullen's grateful for the darkness that hides his blush. Food. Right. Dorian's not just touching him for the hell of it. "You got the cup?" he asks, as casually as he can, shaking out his arm to rid himself of the phantom sensation Dorian's fingers left behind.

Mixing the powder and water is a bit of a production, but between them, they manage to do it without spilling too much. Cullen's on his second cup when the sliding door thumps and begins to open. He's reaching for his gun when Bull says, "Just me."

"If I knew you were coming, I'd've baked a cake," Dorian says, and Bull's grinning as he flips himself off the roof of the car and inside.

He shuts the door quickly, dropping them all into darkness again. "See, Chief?" he says, his voice moving slowly across the car. "I told you my sparkly friend wouldn't drop you."

Cullen blinks, and hears an exasperated sigh from Dorian. "Sparkly?" Cullen asks.

"It's a stupid fucking nickname," Dorian says, sounding as exasperated as his sigh implied. "A friend of ours likes to hand them out, and you'd just better hope you get something like Bull, instead of something like Sparkler."

"Why Sparkler?" Cullen asks. He thinks he knows, he just can't resist baiting Dorian: he's already learned to savor the rare moments when Dorian is at a conversational disadvantage.

But it's Bull who answers. "Well, supposedly it's because he's all flash and no heat."

"Supposedly?"

"I say it's 'cause he's pretty, but he's got a habit of setting things on fire even when he doesn't mean to. Like a sparkler."

"But I'm a _big_ sparkler," Dorian purrs, "not one of those little toys that only last a few minutes. I can last for _hours_." The darkness makes the words about ten times more intimate than they would be in daylight.

Cullen is blushing furiously, and he only blushes harder when Bull responds in the same tone, "Oh, I know."

Dorian laughs while Cullen sits frozen, cup halfway to his mouth, not sure how to interpret any of this. He's watched guys play "gay chicken" before, but this doesn't feel quite the same. And besides, who's stupid enough to play gay chicken with a gay man? On the other hand, does he really think these two have slept together? The rules about that are pretty strict, and neither of them seems inclined to risk their careers for a quick fuck, though Christ knows Cullen has seen smarter people do stupider things. If it's more than a quick fuck, Bull is remarkably laid back about Dorian flirting with him.

Unless he's just that comfortable with their relationship, and he knows Dorian doesn't mean it.

 _Don't you have better things to worry about?_ Cullen demands of himself. _There was this prison, remember?_ He finishes raising the cup and takes a gulp. Though really, if he's got to worry about something, he'd rather regress to high school than think about all the shit that's been stirred up in his brain by the last two months.

As Cullen's fumbling his way through refilling his cup with water, Dorian says, "So tell us about Honnleath, Chief."

Surprised, Cullen pours water over his lap instead of into the cup. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to tell us," Dorian says magnanimously. "We've got nine hours to kill before we get off this train, and we can't play cards in the dark. So start talking, or we'll all be certifiable by morning."

A command performance is exactly the kind of thing that makes Cullen's mind go blank. What's he supposed to talk about?

"How big a town is it?" Bull asks, throwing him a bone.

"Not very," Cullen says. "Kind of a 'here it comes, there it went' sorta place." Inspiration strikes, and he aims his voice in Dorian's direction. "You said you grew up in Boston?"

"Mostly Boston. I'm definitely a city boy, didn't know cows were bigger than chickens until I was fourteen." Just like the last time, Dorian's tone is cheerful, as if nothing's wrong, even as he diverts the conversation once again. "I'm going to guess you didn't have that problem."

"Nope," Cullen agrees. "My folks have a farm, actually, so I could tell you first-hand: cows are bigger, and make a lot more shit."

"Ahhhh, barn shoveling," Dorian says dreamily. "That classic country pastime. And people wonder why I don't want to leave the city. I'm so much better at dodging muggers and taxis."

Despite Cullen's best efforts, the next few hours pass much the same, with Dorian deflecting all questions about his family and his life before the army. If Cullen's brain wasn't still slipping gears occasionally, his best efforts might be better at pinning the man down, but he just can't think of anything to try that isn't obnoxiously blunt. And thoughts of pinning Dorian down are exactly what he _doesn't_ need.

Once the sun comes up and the cards come out, Dorian's deflections get even better, and Cullen gives up for the moment, though his curiosity is now more than piqued. He entertains himself with progressively less-likely stories about Dorian's parents (mass murderers? cultists? telemarketers?) until late morning, when Bull collects up the cards and starts tapping them into a neat stack.

"Almost there," he says by way of explanation, though Cullen hasn't seen much change in the landscape he's glimpsed through the gaps in the sides of the car. "Time to get dressed."

Getting dressed means struggling into one of the three robes Cullen's been carrying in his pack, while Bull and Dorian do the same. The robe's colors are faded and it smells faintly of goat, but it gives him a hood to pull up over his head, and he can only hope that between the shadows and the dye job, no one will look at him too closely. Not that he has time for anything more elaborate, even if there was something he could do: Bull and Dorian are crouched by the open door, Bull's hand waving Cullen forward.

"Try to roll when you hit," is all the advice Cullen gets before Bull is swinging him out of the train. For once, his body does what it's supposed to do, years of training taking over so he doesn't just tumble across the ground. He's on his feet by the time Bull and Dorian come running up.

"Okay, Chief?" Bull asks.

"Yeah," Cullen says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. Bull chuckles and thumps him on the shoulder. Cullen staggers half a step under the blow, rolling his shoulder to take the sting out.

"Sorry," Bull says, but he sounds distracted, his eyes scanning the area around them.

Cullen follows his gaze, taking in the low hills and the scrubby trees that look so much like where they started that they might have ridden the train in a giant circle. He can only assume they're at the right place, and he tries to orient himself without taking out the map.

"Okay," Dorian says once the train is past and its clattering is reduced to a distant rumble. "We've got about a mile to go until we get to the road. Once we're there, some nice gentlemen should be along in about four hours, and they're going to decide to stop for a piss break right near here. And wouldn't you know it, the back of their truck will so conveniently be unlocked, with plenty of space for three people who keep quiet and let everyone pretend they're not there."

"Conveniently," Cullen repeats.

"Well, assuming they stay bought. If they don't, we've got some walking to do." He looks Cullen up and down critically. "Which might not be a complete disaster, but why walk if we can ride? And they were paid enough, they should fucking well stay bought."

"Just be glad he paid them in cash," Bull mutters.

While Cullen is still trying to work out the logistics of paying a bribe by credit card, Dorian grins wickedly. "You're just jealous."

"Cocksucker," Bull says affectionately, and Cullen's face turns red. They're definitely not talking about credit cards, then.

Dorian's grin widens into something just short of deadly. Illegal in thirty states, definitely. Maybe thirty-five. It's not even directed at Cullen, and he can still feel the heat off it. His opinion of Bull, already high, goes higher when the man appears completely unaffected. He has to be straight. _Has_ to be.

"You must turn in some really interesting expense reports," Cullen says. He almost trips over the words, but this conversation needs to move on. Now.

"Two word, Chief," Dorian says. "Travel costs. Covers a multitude of sins. Though somehow, I never see to be able to keep track of my receipts. I'm sure Accounting hates me." He smirks, but at least Cullen no longer feels like he might get a sunburn from the heat of his smile. "Just think of it as a really expensive bus ticket."

"A bus ticket. Right."

"See, that's the spirit! Anyway, I expect they'll be here, give or take an hour."

"If they've already got their money, not much reason for them to risk their necks," Cullen says, his brain unable to stop picking at all the ways this could go wrong.

Dorian looks offended, and Bull laughs. "Give us some credit," Dorian says. "They've got half now, and they don't get the rest until we're where we need to go."

"Doesn't that blow 'plausible deniability' all to hell? For them, anyway. 'Nope, didn't see anybody get in the back of my truck, but some guy just gave me a wad of cash out of the kindness of his heart.'"

"Your doubts wound me. All shall be made clear in time, young padawan." Dorian hitches his pack a little higher on his shoulders. "And speaking of time, let's keep moving."

Walking in a straight line in bright daylight is an entirely different experience than stumbling after Bull or Dorian in the dark, and a mile is nothing after the last few days. He's sweating by the time they stop, but that has more to do with the heat and the robe than any actual exertion.

Waiting for their next ride turns out to be even more boring than riding in the train. Bull and Dorian are on high alert, only one of them nearby at any given moment, and there aren't even any card games to pass the time. The terrain is too monotonous to provide more than a minute's worth of entertainment, and Cullen takes a series of brief naps out of plain old boredom.

He's in the middle of one such when Dorian shakes his shoulder. "We're up, Chief," he says, and his fingers are flexing as he looks in the direction of the road.

It's not as if Cullen has to do much to get ready: just get to his feet and shake out the robe he's still not quite used to. "Am I going to have to run in this thing?" he asks Dorian.

"Not if we're lucky," Dorian says cheerfully, which is far from reassuring. Before Cullen can point that out, Bull comes into sight, jogging toward them.

"Definitely our guys," Bull says.

"Perfect," Dorian says, and sets off at a pace even Cullen can match.

That jog turns into a walk, then a crawl as they get closer to the road, and by the time Cullen can see the truck, they're low-crawling on their bellies through the scrub. There's no one else in sight, but he can hear voices from the other side of the truck. He doesn't need to understand the language to recognize the sound of someone being mercilessly teased and not taking it very well.

The truck has seen better days (possibly better years), but Cullen's inclined to be charitable, since the back door rolls up almost soundlessly when Bull tugs on the handle. Dorian slides in first, and Cullen passes him all three packs before following awkwardly. He's not nearly as bendy as Dorian, and his chest is wider despite all the weight he's lost. The bottom of the door catches on his robe and takes a painful gouge out of his pecs.

All his excuses are then immediately thrown in his face when Bull, considerably wider than either of them, slips under the door without any sign of a struggle. Dorian lets the door drop slowly back down until it clicks into place, leaving them in the too-hot, crowded dimness of a freight truck.

Dorian puts one finger to his lips in warning, and Cullen manages not to roll his eyes. Like he needs to be reminded how important it is to keep quiet. Instead of making faces like a teenager, he rubs at the sore spot on his chest. He doesn't think it's bleeding, even if it does hurt like a sunnuva bitch.

The light leaking into the truck isn't enough to make out Dorian's expression, but his head tilt is obvious, and his fingers gesture at Cullen's chest in a clear question. Cullen shakes his head and flashes him the okay sign, though his brain helpfully adds, _You can kiss it and make it better._

At this point, he's almost used to the running commentary from the juvenile part of his mind. It's not such a big deal right now, but when he starts to recover a little more, he's going to be in trouble if he can't get it under control. The last thing he needs is to walk around with a constant hard-on. Never mind the embarrassment, he doesn't need the _distraction_ , not when there's still a decent chance someone might decide to shoot at them any minute now. Not that telling his brain that does a bit of good, but he repeats it like a mantra as the truck's engine turns over and they start to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm out of town for the next two weeks, so while I'll be able to see and reply to comments, don't look for the next update before the 20th.


	9. Lawyers, Guns, and Money

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I went home with the waitress  
> The way I always do  
> How was I to know  
> She was with the Russians, too
> 
> I was gambling in Havana  
> I took a little risk  
> Send lawyers, guns and money  
> Dad, get me out of this
> 
> Warren Zevon, "Lawyers, Guns and Money"  
> ***************************  
> Time for some good news/bad news.
> 
> The good news: I've now got about 45,000 words of this written.
> 
> The bad news: other than what you see, it's all stuff that goes in the middle or at the end. I'm actually a bit stuck on where to go from here, so there may be another few weeks between this update and the next. Or I might be struck with inspiration in the middle of the night and finish this thing by next Tuesday.
> 
> Personally? I'd bet on Option A.
> 
> If anyone noticed, yes, the rating on this story did change, but see "bad news" above. Sorry to disappoint. Or, no need to worry, if you like your burn slow. :)

As the minutes turn into hours, Cullen finds himself increasingly aware of Dorian pressed up against his left side. Bull may be just as close on his right, but it's only his left shoulder that feels like it's too close to a fire. Every time the truck sways and Dorian leans into him, Cullen has to fight off the impulse to shift away to maintain some distance, and the equally strong impulse to lean in and get as close as he can. It's not very comfortable, though at least he's no longer cold, not with a warm body on either side and the day's heat trapped inside the truck.

He's concentrating so hard on keeping himself in place that it takes him a while to notice that Dorian and Bull are frowning at each other. About the time he notices, Dorian bends over to put his mouth against Cullen's ear and say, "GPS?"

Dorian's breath on his face is enough to distract him, and he has to rewind his memory before he understands. He'd be embarrassed about it, except that he can think of only one reason Dorian might want to see the GPS, and the frowns on either side of him aren't very reassuring. His pulse picks up a little, but before he can do or say anything, there's a squeal from the brakes as the truck slews around, throwing him almost across Bull's lap as they all lurch to a stop.

Bull shoves him off and draws his gun, kneeling so he blocks Cullen's body with his own. Dorian is belly down on the floor of the truck, his own gun out and his eyes fixed on the door. Cullen draws his gun but keeps it pointed off to one side; the way his hands are shaking, he can't swear he wouldn't hit the wrong person in the close confines of the truck.

The engine cuts off, and now they can hear two frantic voices. Cullen has no idea what either one is saying, only that he recognizes the two he heard when they were sneaking into the truck in the first place. They sound more frantic than amused now, as the cab doors open and two pairs of feet crunch in gravel.

Bull hisses wordlessly at Dorian, who answers the unspoken question in a whisper. "I can't make out much, just sounds like they're apologizing to someone. Unless you want to open the door, that's the best I can give you."

"Fuck that," Bull says, so quietly Cullen wouldn't have heard him if they weren't inches apart, and Dorian huffs out a laugh in agreement.

The sound of a pair of gunshots cuts off the laugh, and Dorian rocks a little, as if he started to get up before thinking better of it.

They wait, then, guns drawn, Dorian's head cocked to catch any hint of conversation outside. The silence is as smothering as the heat, and Cullen's hands start to sweat on the butt of the gun as he tries to avoid thinking about concrete floors and cinderblock walls. _Not again,_ he prays. Twice was bad enough; he doesn't know if he can survive being a prisoner for a third time.

His muscles are winding up like springs, and it doesn't help when footsteps crunch in the gravel to his left, clearly headed for the back of the truck. Fear is pushing out from his chest, the beginning of an honest-to-fucking-god panic attack, and nausea swells as someone pounds on the truck's rear door, rattling it in its track.

"Open, Sesame!" a new voice calls.

Bull puts a careful hand on Cullen's to keep his gun down, the gun Cullen raised on pure, blind instinct. Dorian has started grinning, which is the only thing keeping Cullen's panic in check as he whispers, "What?"

"It's all good, Chief," Bull says, which isn't much, as explanations go.

Before Cullen can demand a better one, Bull lets go of him to lift the door one-handed, revealing a very short guy with a very big gun. A huge gun, in fact. If Cullen has to describe it later, he's pretty sure "hand cannon" will feature prominently in the description. Possibly also BFG, and maybe even WTF. It's pointed at the ground off to one side and it's _still_ mesmerizing.

After a couple seconds blinking at the gun, Cullen manages to actually look at the hand holding it, not to mention the rest of the owner. His initial vague impression of the guy's height proves to have been somewhat off: while the guy is short, he's not quite as short as Cullen first thought. His shoulders have to be nearly as broad as Bull's, and without Bull's height, the whole effect throws off Cullen's mental measuring tape.

Looking past the guy, Cullen can see a gravel road and a whole lot of nothing, just more hills covered in scrubby trees. They might be the only people on the planet, for all the signs of life Cullen can see right now: no buildings, no vehicles, and no one besides the four of them. With the truck's engine off, it's weirdly quiet.

"Hey, Tiny," the guy says, and Cullen looks back at him, then blinks again as he realizes this unlikely nickname is addressed to Bull.

Bull appears unfazed, returning the greeting with a tilt of his chin and a smile, his hands still occupied with his gun and the truck's rear door. "Hey, Andre."

The guy doesn't look anything like an Andre to Cullen, but when they named him, his parents probably weren't expecting their darling baby to turn into a defensive lineman who'd been chopped off at the knees. A defensive lineman with aggressive chest hair.

Said defensive lineman is squinting into the truck now, looking straight at Cullen. "You got something in your eyes?" he asks.

Which is when Cullen realizes he's still blinking in shock, his body humming with unnecessary adrenaline. He closes his eyes tightly for a second and tries to get back in control. "Nope, I'm good," he says, and holsters his gun. The last thing he needs is to have a panic attack while he's got a loaded weapon in his hands.

"So what went wrong?" Dorian asks, hopping out of the truck without holstering his gun.

"And hello to you too, Sparkler," Andre says.

Dorian rolls his eyes and chirps with false sincerity, "Why hello, Varric! Fancy meeting you here!" He looks around the side of the truck and raises an eyebrow at whatever he sees. "Did you want to discuss the weather while we're at it?"

"Think the rain'll hurt the rhubarb?" Bull asks with a straight face, and Dorian gives a long-suffering sigh.

Cullen swallows a laugh that had a pretty good chance of coming out as an embarrassing giggle, and manages to give the correct answer without so much as a quaver. "Not if it's in cans!"

That gets a laugh from Varric/Andre/whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is. Someday soon, Cullen hopes he'll get to go back to meeting people who only have one goddamn name.

"Varric Tethras," the guy says, as if he heard the thought. He holds out a hand to Cullen, who shakes it with some bemusement.

"Not Andre, then?" he asks.

Bull laughs. "Andre's a nickname. As in Andre the Giant." He tilts the thumb on his gun hand toward his own chest. "Seemed only fair, if he's going to call me Tiny."

"Andre's not a great nickname," Varric says, examining his fingernails critically, "but of course they don't have my talent with words."

"Do you see what I put up with?" Dorian says to the air. "Can we dispense with the chit-chat _now_?"

"In just a second," says Varric. "First, I get to say 'I told you so.' I told you it was too much money."

Dorian groans. "Oh fucking hell. Seriously?"

"Like a heart attack," Varric says.

"How badly are we fucked?"

"Not as bad as you would have been, if I wasn't a suspicious bastard." Varric thinks about this for a second, then adds, "A _well-informed_ , suspicious bastard."

"Well, don't keep us in suspense," Dorian says sarcastically.

"Not much to tell," Varric says. "You paid them too much, they started to wonder and decided maybe they could take your money and then turn you in for a little extra. I, of course, know everything before it happens, and so I came out to save your asses."

Cullen doesn't need a translation to know that Dorian's swearing, even if it's not in English.

"I told you so," Varric adds. "On the plus side, I don't think they actually knew what they caught, just that you were paying too much for it to be as easy as you tried to make it sound."

"You think, or you know?" Dorian asks.

"I don't _know_ shit. I'm pretty sure, but a change of plans might be good anyway."

"Are we on Plan G or Plan H now?" Cullen asks, because if he's joking about this, then he's not curling into a ball or screaming.

"Only Plan H?" Varric snorts. "You're not doing too bad, then. And I have some ideas."

"Of course you do," Dorian mutters. "Is this going to be as embarrassing as your last idea?"

Cullen's half hoping someone will share that story, but no luck. "Probably not," is all Varric says on the subject. "I've got a place you can hole up for a couple days. You'll miss your pickup, but I'll get you another one."

Dorian grimaces, and Bull doesn't look too happy, but Varric spreads his hands wide. "You can always stick to the original plan if you want."

It's pretty clear that neither Dorian nor Bull wants, but equally clear they're not happy at the prospect of missing their pickup. Cullen isn't too thrilled by that last part, either. He wants _out_ of this god-forsaken country, not to spend another few weeks running around in the wilderness.

Bull and Dorian retreat around the side of the truck for a whispered conference, leaving Cullen alone with Varric. Cullen's not normally given to talking just to fill a silence, but this silence is weighing on him, big time. The adrenaline hasn't faded yet, and he can still feel the leading edge of a panic attack waiting to drown him.

"So what kind of gun is that?" Cullen asks, because it's the first thing that comes to mind. "I've never seen anything like it." He's not an expert, but he's handled his share of guns, and Varric's isn't anything he recognizes.

"Ah, she's beautiful, isn't she?" Varric says, with more enthusiasm than Cullen is entirely comfortable with. "She was built specially for me."

Cullen stares at him. "Like a prototype?"

"Like a work of art," Varric corrects, and he strokes one hand down the gun's barrel. Which is definitely a little weird, especially if he's going to insist on using the female pronoun.

"Where do you even find something like that?" Cullen asks. "Not exactly the kind of thing you see on Etsy."

Varric laughs, loud and long. "Nope. I've got connections." He pats the gun again, and adds, "Bianca's one of a kind."

"Yes," Dorian says, returning from his huddle with Bull in time to catch this last bit, "yes, he really did name his gun Bianca. We don't ask whether he's named anything else, like that certain part of the male anatomy for which a large gun sometimes compensates."

"Bianca," Cullen mutters, not sure if he's allowed to laugh but choking it back just in case. "Better than naming it Reason, I guess."

To Cullen's secret delight, Varric intones, " _Ultima ratio regum_."

"The last argument of kings?" Dorian asks, obviously confused. And why is Cullen surprised that Dorian knows Latin?

"Nobody reads the classics anymore," Varric says to Cullen, shaking his head.

"Tragic," Dorian says. "Now then. While Bull's dragging your late, unlamented associates off into the bushes, and if the two of you are quite finished bonding, tell us about Plan H."

"Not much to it," Varric says. "You know I like to keep things simple. I've got a place you can hide out for a few days while I work out a new pickup." He shoots Dorian a sly look. "You've brought your own lawyer, but I got you some guns and money to round things out."

Dorian snorts a laugh, and explains to Cullen, "My parents wanted me to be a lawyer. Today law school, tomorrow the Senate!"

Which is the most information Dorian's volunteered about his family, and Cullen regrets--briefly--that now isn't the time to fish for more details.

"How far away is this Utopia?" Dorian asks as Bull rejoins them, dusting his hands off on his pants.

"It's about a million miles from anywhere convenient," Varric says with a shrug, "but it's also nowhere anyone will look for you. As an added bonus, you can feed up Curly here, so he doesn't look quite so much like he's going to fall over if I look at him cross-eyed."

Cullen wants to point out that he's done a pretty good job keeping up so far, but then he thinks back to the "snake" and keeps his mouth shut.

To his surprise, Dorian snaps, "He's doing just fine." When Varric, Bull, and Cullen all turn to stare at him, he scowls back. "What? Don't you think making fun of the starved guy is a little much even for you, Varric?"

Great, just how he wants Dorian to see him: as a victim. He reminds himself that it doesn't really matter and continues to keep his mouth shut.

"Aaaanyway," Bull says, still giving Dorian a quizzical look from the corner of his eye. "How are we getting to this place? I assume we're not taking this." And he slaps his hand against the side of the truck.

"If you boys can walk a couple miles, I've got us a ride."

Cullen gets another dubious look from Varric, and Dorian snaps, "He's already walked thirty miles in the last three days, half of it uphill. He can manage another two."

Once again, Cullen stays quiet. He'd be willing to bet money it wasn't actually thirty miles, but his ego is prepared to take all the stroking it can get right now.

"Hey, sorry," Varric says, holding up his hands in surrender. "No offense meant, Curly."

"None taken," Cullen says, then adds, "Which way?" before the conversation gets any weirder.

Varric gestures grandly off to the left with one hand while the other slots his gun into an over-the-shoulder holster that looks like it's a one-off from whoever made the gun itself. Not too surprising, really: as big as the thing is, Cullen can't imagine anything commercially available that would hold it.

As they walk, Varric leading the way, Cullen gets plenty of time to admire the artistic merits of both gun and holster. It gives him something to do besides get frustrated by the whispered conversation Bull and Dorian are having behind him, the one mostly drowned out by Varric humming "Lawyers, Guns, and Money." The only part of the conversation he can hear is Dorian's irritated "I'm fine!" that ends it.

He couldn't say why, but Cullen finds himself humming happily along with Varric as they walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me for a moment in imagining Varric standing in the middle of the road carrying a big fucking gun, daring the driver of the truck to run him over. If I had so much as a scrap of artistic talent, I'd draw it for y'all because it's been making me giggle all week, but I can't even draw stick people, so you'll just have to imagine it for yourselves.
> 
> Also, I feel like I should be footnoting all the cultural references in this chapter. Hands up! Who caught the _Snow Crash_ reference?


	10. Mysterious Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm thinking 'bout how people fall in love in mysterious ways  
> Maybe just the touch of a hand
> 
> Ed Sheeran, "Thinking Out Loud"  
> ***************  
> The question is not whether this chapter ran away with me, because that answer is unequivocally yes. The real question is whether I managed to be funny while chasing after it, trying to keep it at least semi-coherent.

Varric's jeep, with its mud spatters and rusted side panels, isn't in much better shape than the truck they just left behind, but it will hold all four of them and Cullen's not inclined to complain. He's even less inclined after watching Bull fold himself, without so much as a grumble, into a front passenger seat that definitely wasn't designed with someone his size in mind. That leaves Cullen riding in the back with Dorian, their legs tangled together to fit, and that's the death blow on any desire to criticize Varric's choice of transportation.

The ride itself starts out boring and only gets worse once the sun sets. Not that the scenery was all that interesting, but it was at least something. Talking is pretty much impossible between the roar of the engine and the wind blowing through the jeep's open sides, and Cullen dozes between the intermittent jolts of pure terror that surge through him whenever they pass another vehicle. No one else seems particularly concerned about it, and he tries to at least fake the same level of nonchalance.

It has to be around two or three in the morning when Varric parks the jeep at their destination, a tiny house that is indeed in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Cullen looks it over and charitably calls it a cabin.

Dorian isn't nearly so kind. "Is this delightful hovel going to collapse on my head in the middle of the night?" he asks as he hops out of the jeep through the open window. Cullen follows more slowly, using the door and keeping a steadying hand on the jeep's frame.

Varric chuckles. "If you bitch enough, it just might."

"Then we're in trouble," Bull says, and sidesteps the blow Dorian aims at his shoulder.

All Dorian's complaints aside, it has four walls and a roof, making it a distinct improvement over everywhere else Cullen has slept for the past three days. Once they get inside, they find that the small space is divided into a tiny kitchen and an even tinier bedroom. The kitchen comes complete with a large stack of canned food, a wood-burning stove, and a hand pump beside a bucket that's clearly supposed to stand in for a sink. The bedroom has three sleeping bags rolled up against one wall, and a rickety stool that Cullen wouldn't willingly trust with his full weight.

"It's very _Little House on the Prairie_ , isn't it?" Dorian says as Varric lights a kerosene lantern. He quirks an eyebrow at Cullen as if expecting him to agree, but Cullen shrugs one shoulder.

"No bars on the door and no guards with guns," he points out. "And those," a sweep of his hand indicates the stacks of canned food against the wall by the sink, "are definitely a plus."

For a second, Dorian looks abashed, but he recovers so quickly Cullen's not entirely sure. Certainly his voice is cheerful enough when he says, "I suppose it's a veritable Hilton, then, isn't it?"

"That might be pushing it," Cullen says, most of his attention on the stacked cans. It's the first time in more than a month that he's seen real food, and the craving has kicked in hard. Knowing it was coming, even half expecting it, Cullen has to clench his hands into fists to keep from tearing the kitchen apart for a can opener.

"Well!" Varric says, clapping his hands together so he can rub them like a Bond villain. "I'm going to leave you gentlemen to get settled, and get some sleep. I'll be keeping watch, so you don't need to worry about that for tonight."

"You sure?" Bull asks. "I can keep you company."

But Varric's shaking his head. "You've earned the pleasure of my company for another twelve hours or so, and I recommend you take advantage of it." He grins at Cullen. "And feed up Curly here while you're at it."

"Yeah, Chief," Dorian says, and there's just the slightest emphasis on the nickname. "Today you get promoted to real food, or what passes for it in these parts, so happy birthday! Or Merry Christmas, or Shanah Tovah, or whatever."

With a laugh, Varric tips them a half-assed salute and heads out into the night. Just before the door swings closed behind him, Cullen sees him reach over his own shoulder to pat the gun's--Bianca's--stock. Which is extra weird if Cullen thinks of it as the butt of the gun, so he tries really hard not to think of it that way.

"What's on the menu, then?" he asks instead, hoping no one else can tell that he's on edge. The food might as well be taunting him, as hard as it is to look anywhere else.

"For you?" Bull asks. "More sludge, and some canned potatoes as a special treat."

"Yum!" Dorian says with mock-enthusiasm. Since he's also produced a P-38 can opener and is eyeing the cans with intent, Cullen's inclined to let the sarcasm go.

While Dorian makes his choice, Cullen retreats to the "bedroom" to set down his pack and give himself thirty seconds to get his shit together. He's done this before, and he knows that eating until he's sick will only make him feel worse, no matter how strong the urge is right now. A couple deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth get him back in control, so that when he comes into the kitchen again he doesn't feel quite so much like the food is calling his name. There's an open can of potatoes on the tiny table beside the pump, along with a cup of sludge already mixed.

"Now there's your breakfast of champions," Dorian says, grinning at him.

"I'm all aflutter," Cullen says dryly.

"I often have that effect on people." Dorian's grin widens, and Cullen gets the same almost-turned-on-but-not-quite buzz he got yesterday in the train. Not anything overwhelming, but it's nice to know he's starting to recover.

Of course, it might be more noteworthy if he could look at Dorian and feel nothing, especially with that grin. Thirty-five states. It's got to be illegal in _at least_ thirty-five states.

There's nowhere to sit except the floor, so Cullen settles himself cross-legged against a wall to drink his sludge while Bull and Dorian peruse the cans, mocking the selection as they pick a few for their own dinner. They're still at it by the time Cullen starts on his potatoes, which taste strange even for canned potatoes. The texture is off, and chewing makes his teeth feel like they're loose, no matter how soft the thing he's chewing. Swallowing isn't any better, and he swears he can feel the food travel all the way down his esophagus.

It's unpleasant, but it's also pretty much as he remembers from last time, so he tries not to think about it. Instead, he watches Dorian, who's currently wielding the can opener like he's done this a hundred times, getting three cans open in less time than it would have taken Cullen to open one.

More mockery of the food selection ensues as Bull and Dorian eat, including dramatic gagging from Dorian as he eats the peas by putting the can against his mouth like a cup and pouring the contents in.

"I can give you something else to gag on," Bull offers with an exaggerated wiggle of his eyebrows. Dorian laughs and ends up choking on the last of the peas, coughing as Bull thumps him solidly on the back.

"Stop!" Dorian gasps, fending Bull off with the hand holding the now-empty can. "Your solicitousness is deeply moving, but perhaps a tad overly enthusiastic."

"Choking on that dictionary again?" Cullen asks.

"He gets like that when he's being a dick," Bull says, thumping Dorian one last time between the shoulder blades, harder than necessary. "Trying to put us plebes in our place."

"Can you be a plebe if you know the word?" Cullen muses.

"You're both clear evidence that it's possible," Dorian says, and ducks sideways to avoid another swat from Bull. "Oh my, look at that, it's bedtime. The Chief and I need our beauty sleep, after all. No hope for you, of course." He ducks again, only to realize too late that the swing was a feint, and ends up catching Bull's open-handed swat against the back of his head. If the blow made a dent in anything besides his head, Cullen can't tell, because he's grinning as they decamp to the bedroom.

There's one thing to be said for living like this: getting ready for bed involves nothing more than spreading out the sleeping bags and putting out the light. The "door" to the bedroom is actually a curtain, and the moonlight coming through the kitchen window creeps around the edges, giving them just enough light to avoid stepping on each other's fingers.

Cullen ends up in the middle, Bull's legs crowding his space as the taller man tries to find a comfortable position while Dorian stays as far against the wall as he can get without crawling up it. By their breathing, Cullen guesses neither of them is having any more luck getting to sleep than he is. Starvation and the lingering effects of his earlier anxiety attacks are pretty much a guarantee for insomnia, and having an equally tense body on either side of him really isn't helping.

"Well," Dorian says at last. "This is fun." His voice is loud in the darkness, even though he's barely speaking above a whisper.

"Like a fucking picnic," Bull agrees. "Where'd you put those cards?"

"And we'll what?" Dorian asks. "Play by Braille? We don't have enough fuel to waste it."

"Better than lying here. We're like an obscene phone call in fucking three-part harmony."

Cullen laughs, putting his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

"See?" Bull adds. "Even Sleeping Beauty here is awake."

"I seem to be acquiring a lot of nicknames," Cullen says, without heat. "Have to say, Sleeping Beauty isn't my favorite." He knows better than to protest too loudly against any of them: nicknames stick better the more the recipient complains. He's seen guys end up with a lot worse than Curly or Sleeping Beauty because they blew their top over something that would have passed in a few days if they'd just kept their mouths shut.

"Curly or Chief, then?" Bull asks, and his tone is a little too innocent, though Cullen's not sure why.

It's hard to say which he would prefer under other circumstances, but Cullen knows exactly which he prefers in the circumstances he's in. "Chief." No need to mention that he prefers it because it came from Dorian, so he makes up a plausible lie. "Why would I want to be one of the Three Stooges when I can be the guy in charge?"

"Thus proving that I am, of course, brilliant at nicknames," Dorian says. Then Cullen finds his ribs in the dark and gives them a hard jab. "Hey! Was that necessary?"

"I'm pretty sure it was," Bull says, "and I don't even know what he did."

"Traitor."

"When you sign my check, then we'll talk."

"I don't sign your check, but..." Dorian trails off meaningfully.

Bull laughs at some private joke, and Cullen's ears prick up, curiosity chasing sleep farther away. Before he can pursue it, Bull says, "You could always try counting sheep."

"Booorrrrriiiiing." Dorian manages to draw the word out to four syllables, sounding so much like Cullen's five-year-old nephew that he grins.

"Hey, if you're gonna keep shooting down my ideas, you're on your own," Bull says.

"Yes, because your ideas have been brilliant so far."

"Don't see you doing any better." Bull sounds amused rather than annoyed. "What about you, Chief? How do you turn your brain off?"

Grateful they're back to Chief and away from Sleeping Beauty, Cullen says, "Whiskey?"

That gets a laugh from both of them.

"Okay, true," Bull says, "but we're kinda short on that right now."

"All I got, sorry. The rest's just the same 'counting sheep' kind of thing."

"Are there more ways than one to count sheep?" Dorian asks. "Unless you mean counting in more than one language, which I can assure you isn't any better."

"Yeah, yeah," Bull says affectionately. "You and your damn languages. Shut the hell up."

Cullen remembers Dorian's quick, easy conversation back at the prison. Not that he has any idea what Dorian said to the guard, but there was none of the stumbling or hesitation he would've expected from a non-native speaker. "How many languages _do_ you speak?" he asks.

"Too many," Bull answers over Dorian. "And most of them fucking useless. He's got a thing for shit no one else cares about."

"No one else may care, but that doesn't make them useless," Dorian says smugly. "We wouldn't be here if they were useless."

So Cullen's initial assessment was right, that the guards were speaking some local dialect. He wonders what would have happened to him if Dorian didn't have, as Bull put it, a "thing" for obscure languages, then decides he really doesn't want to think about it.

"There you go," Bull says to Dorian, "taking all the credit again. It's called 'teamwork,' remember?"

"Team. Work." Dorian pronounces each word carefully, like he's never heard them before. "Nope, not ringing any bells. Can you use it in a sentence?"

"Yeah, sure. 'Me and the Chief are gonna use _teamwork_ to beat the shit outta you.' How's that?"

"Mmmmm, nope, still nothing," Dorian says regretfully.

Cullen has his lips pressed together hard, but a snort still escapes him. As if the noise has reminded them of his presence, Dorian says, "So tell us about these other ways to count sheep."

"It's not counting sheep," Cullen says, now vaguely embarrassed. It's going to sound stupid, and he knows it.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense."

Trying to dodge will only make it worse. "It's this thing my mom taught me, when I was a kid. You try to come up with a fruit or vegetable for every letter of the alphabet."

"Does it work?"

"Sometimes." It worked a lot better in elementary school, when the thoughts keeping him awake were less dark than the ones plaguing him now.

"Let's see how we do," Dorian says, and Cullen swears he's rubbing his hands together, more than a little reminiscent of Varric's earlier Bond-villain impersonation. "I can already predict some difficulties, but we're a clever bunch."

"I don't think it's supposed to be a team sport," Cullen points out. "Not if you're trying to use it to go to sleep."

"Don't bother me with trifles!" Dorian is definitely rubbing his hands together. "So...A is for apple. Prosaic, but what can you do. B is for banana, C is for...hmmm. C. Cantaloupe! D is for-"

"D is for Dorian," Bull interrupts, and Cullen can't stop another snort of laughter.

"Humor. Har." Dorian gives a disapproving sniff. "E is for eggplant. F is for...hmmm."

"Falafel." Bull's tone is so devoid of emotion that Cullen knows he's being difficult on purpose.

"Just so we're clear, I'm ignoring you now. I suppose Fuji apples is cheating?"

"I think cheating's kinda meaningless here," Cullen says. "It's not like you win anything for getting all the way through the alphabet."

"You clearly lack any sort of competitive impulse," Dorian says. "F is for Fuji apples, G is for Granny Smith apples, H is for Honeycrisp apples, I is for iceberg lettuce, J is for jicama-"

"Show off," Bull mutters.

"-K is for kale, L is for lima beans-"

"Beans aren't a vegetable," Bull says. "Or a fruit, either."

"Everybody's a critic. You could make some suggestions of your own, rather than just shooting down mine."

"Ha! Shoe's on the other foot now! And how about lettuce, dumbass?"

"Oh yes. Right. What's next?" He mumbles through the first half of the alphabet at warp speed. "M. M is for...M is for..." There's a long pause, and Cullen waits. He can think of some answers (he played this game a lot as a kid), but listening to Dorian and Bull play verbal tennis is a hell of a lot more fun. For the moment anyway, the last remnants of the adrenaline his brain kept hitting him with in the jeep have faded, and even though he knows the shaking will be back, it's nice to get even a short break.

Dorian growls in frustration. "Muskrat! Mastodon! Masticate!"

Cullen's ribs hurt from holding back his laughter. "That's negative points for using an animal, double negative points for using an _extinct_ animal, and triple negative points for using a _verb_."

"Fuck me," Dorian mutters.

Cullen doesn't think, just answers as if he was home with his own guys. "Not tonight, honey, I have a headache." Only once the words are out does he wince.

The stunned silence that follows is broken by Bull, laughing so hard Cullen can feel the vibrations in the floor. "Okay, Chief, you can stay," he gasps at last.

"Such a relief," Cullen says.

"And M is for _melon_." Bull is still laughing quietly to himself.

"Well no wonder I couldn't think of it," Dorian says. "Melons don't interest me in the slightest. N is for...well, if I can use Fuji apples, I can use navel oranges. O is for oranges, P is for plums. Q." He's almost manic now, the words coming faster and faster. "Quince! 'They dined on mince and slices of quince,'" he recites.

"'And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon,'" Cullen adds.

"You forgot the runcible spoon," Dorian informs him. "A very important part." He doesn't wait for Cullen to say anything, his mouth clearly stuck in the "on" position. "When I was a kid, I thought that was mints, M-I-N-T-S, instead of mince, M-I-N-C-E."

"I've had mincemeat pies," Bull says. "Stick with mints."

"They're not bad!" Cullen protests. "My mother makes one every year at Christmas."

"Then it's not the pie that tastes good," Dorian says, "it's the nostalgia. Either that, or your parents brainwashed you young."

"Or both," Bull points out.

"True," Dorian says. "Where were we? Mince? No, quince." Another quick recitation of the alphabet so far, even faster than before, until he catches up with himself and the next letter. "R. Radishes. Spinach. Tomatoes. Ugli fruit." He pauses again.

"Yes, yes, you're very smart," Bull says.

"I know. Violets--and before you say it, people eat the flowers--watermelon, kumquats, yams, and zucchini."

"Since when does kumquat start with an X?" Bull demands.

"X is a variable," Dorian says loftily. "It can be whatever I want."

"And you wanted to say kumquat."

"Well, of course."

"You could've used it back where it belongs, instead of kale."

"I hadn't thought of it then, so I had to improvise."

"You and your improvising. God help us."

"Like He's ever any help. I gave up on Him a long time ago," Dorian says. There's an awkward pause before he adds apologetically, "That sounded more funny and less bitter in my head."

"My sparkly friend here is a recovering Catholic," Bull says, reaching across Cullen to pat Dorian on the head. It's a deliberately patronizing gesture, and Dorian swats at his hand as if irritated, but Cullen doesn't miss the half second squeeze that Dorian gives Bull's fingers before shoving him away.

"The recovering Catholic part probably also explains the recovering alcoholic part," Dorian says flippantly, even as Cullen's brain scrambles back through previous conversations. What recovering alcoholic part? Is Dorian serious, or is this another in the (admittedly quite long) string of inside jokes he's been catching the edges of for three days?

"And they sort of go together, too," Dorian adds. "You know, I avoid bars so I'm not tempted to drink, and I avoid churches so I'm not tempted to pray."

On Cullen's other side, Bull has gone completely still, and Cullen realizes that however lightly Dorian said the words, they're at least half true. Cullen's earlier joke about whiskey as a sleeping aid comes back to him, and he winces, but his brain has finally decided to start shutting down for the night and he can't think of anything to say.

Silence descends for a little while, broken (predictably enough) by Dorian. "Not a very restful game, Chief," he says regretfully. "I think we're back to counting sheep."

"I dunno," Cullen says, "I'm feeling pretty sleepy." And he is. The half a minute of silence before Dorian spoke crashed into him like yesterday's train, and now he struggles to keep his eyes open.

Dorian's hand touches his shoulder, brushing lightly across it. "Sleep, then," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice that's terribly important, but Cullen can't figure it out before the train runs him over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's curious, [this](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P-38_can_opener) is the kind of can opener Dorian's using. Surprisingly effective, once you know how to use it, and eminently portable.


	11. A Vision Softly Creeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darkness, my old friend,  
> I've come to talk with you again,  
> Because a vision softly creeping,  
> Left its seeds while I was sleeping,  
> And the vision that was planted in my brain  
> Still remains  
> Within the sound of silence.
> 
> Paul Simon, "The Sound of Silence"

The nightmare is back. It's been a long time since the old terror sucked him in, but here it is again, the darkness pressing in on him from all sides as he walks endlessly. All he can see are random bursts of color as his brain tries to make sense of the darkness, and all he can hear is his own pulse. The darkness is terrifying, not because of what might be lurking, but because _nothing_ is. He's alone, completely alone, walking with one hand on rough stone in the vain hope that if he walks long enough, he'll find at least one other person. Part of him knows he's just walking in a circle, touching the same stone he's touched before, but he ignores that knowledge and hopes.

Hope is a bitch, worse than any other torture they could devise. If he could stop hoping, then he could just lie down and die, but hope sparks every time his own voice echoes back to him, every time his eyes, perhaps bored, create grey shapes where nothing really exists. He walks, and hopes that his next step will bring him to someone-- _anyone_ \--else.

Voices in the darkness, then the dream shatters, and he's lying on a sleeping bag in a tiny room, a kerosene lantern casting strange shadows over everything. Bull and Dorian are kneeling on either side, neither of them touching him.

"Chief?" Bull says quietly.

"I'm okay," Cullen manages to gasp out. It's all he can do not to grab one of them, to use touch to force his mind to remember that there's another human being here with him. Two of them, in fact. He's not alone, not in that hole, not stuck in the endless dark.

Dorian touches his shoulder, hand hot through the t-shirt, and Cullen can't stop his own hand from reaching up to cover Dorian's and press it harder against him. _Real. This is real. They are real._

The terror fades enough for embarrassment to seep in around the edges. "Sorry."

"You're apologizing for having a nightmare?" Dorian demands at the same time as Bull says, "Don't be an ass."

Cullen smiles faintly. It's the best he can manage, and still a lot more than he would have thought he could do within a minute of waking from that nightmare. "Right, then," he says. "Not being an ass. Check." He rubs his eyes with his free hand, unwilling to let go of Dorian just yet, even if it makes him look like a stupid kid. With his eyes pressed shut, he forces himself to explain. If the nightmare's back then they need to know its source, before it bites all of them in the ass at some unexpected and inevitably-critical moment. "This isn't the first time."

"Not the first time for...what?" Dorian asks. "Having a nightmare?"

"Not the first time I've been a prisoner." The words are difficult, and they sound wrong in his ears. He's never had to explain it to anyone: his family and close friends know, any commanding officer can see it in his file, and the rest of the world can go fuck itself. "It was about ten years ago." Eleven years and four months. "These guys? The place you just pulled me out of? They were amateurs." They would probably still have broken him given enough time, but they didn't know how and when and where to push, not really. They just had the bad luck (or good luck, from their point of view) to be putting pressure on all the stress fractures inside him.

"And the ones who had you last time were professionals?" Dorian asks, when Cullen doesn't go on.

"Yes."

"Ah." His fingers dig into Cullen's shoulder, too hard and entirely welcome.

"I'll be all right," Cullen says after a while, letting go of Dorian's hand before this can get any more awkward. He keeps his eyes closed.

Dorian's hand withdraws (reluctantly?) and he moves away. Cullen knows it's stupid, but he would swear he feels Dorian's absence like a tiny echo of the dream, and he clenches his teeth on a mortifying cry of "Come back!" _Not alone,_ he reminds himself, and opens his eyes.

There's no pity in Bull's gaze, just a steady regard that helps Cullen's lizard brain remember he's not in that pit. "Been there, done that," Bull says, very quietly.

Cullen blinks at him for a few seconds before the words sink in. Then he blinks some more and asks, "Got the t-shirt?"

"Might as well, right? Can't ever have too many t-shirts."

Another couple of muscles unclench as Cullen laughs hoarsely. "Right. 'Course not."

He lets Bull help him sit up, because it feels like help and not like he's being babied. By the time he's got his back against the wall, sleeping bags shoved to one side, his heart rate is almost back to normal.

"You talk to somebody after it?" Bull asks.

From anyone else, in any other situation, the question would be shockingly intrusive, and Cullen's pretty sure that even Dorian's presence would keep him from answering. Which might be why Dorian's vanished, now Cullen thinks about it, always assuming Dorian knows Bull's history.

"Sorry, Chief," Bull says, when Cullen's silent too long. "Wasn't trying to get in your business."

"It's okay," Cullen says. "Just thinking too hard. But yeah, I did."

"A lot of people don't," Bull says.

In for a penny, in for a pound. "I'm sixth generation army," Cullen says.

"Usually means you'd be less likely to deal with it, not more."

"I know," Cullen says, and tries to find the right words. "My dad served in Vietnam, was a POW for two years. When he came home, he...well, he says now that he was a stereotype. He drank, got in fights, couldn't keep a job, all of it. The day he hit my mother, she walked out, told him she wasn't coming back unless he got some help. I mean, this was fucking 1974, and she said it to a guy who was fifth generation army. She told me once it never even crossed her mind that he would do it."

"But he did?"

"He did. And I guess...I grew up with that story. Maybe not all the details--nobody's gonna tell a four-year-old about being a POW in Vietnam--but by the time I was a teenager, I knew the basics of it. My dad never tried to hide it or pretend it didn't happen. Any of it, not even the part where my mom left him. He likes to say that if us kids never saw him owning up to his mistakes, how could he expect us to admit when we'd been wrong?"

"Your dad sounds like a pretty amazing guy."

"Yeah," Cullen says. "I didn't realize it until I was in my twenties, but he really is."

"And your mom, too, making him deal with it."

Cullen hesitates, again struggling to fit his family into words. He grew up with this, and the knowledge is more emotion than thought, something he's known so long he doesn't remember _not_ knowing it. Explaining it to someone he met less than a week ago feels weird, but less weird than he would have expected.

"That's the...that's the thing. She didn't make him, and that's always been a...a thing with them." God, could he be any less articulate? "She said, 'I'm not coming back unless you do this,' and he did it, but he says he didn't do it to get her back. He did it because...because he trusted her, trusts her, and even though he didn't see how talking to someone with too many diplomas would help, she said it would and...and he trusts her. So he did it." Cullen makes himself stop talking before he manages to sound any stupider.

But Bull doesn't look like he's holding back a laugh, or some mocking comment. Instead, his eyebrows are up high, and he's quiet for long enough that Cullen begins to wonder if he should apologize for over-sharing. He's never talked about any of this with anyone, and he's not entirely sure where the line is once he's gotten started.

"You do know how lucky you are, right?" Bull asks, breaking the tension, and Cullen laughs a little.

"Yeah, I know. Something else I didn't realize until I was in my twenties, and watching my friends find new and creative ways to have shitty relationships. I've only had one relationship crash and burn with no survivors, and I'm happy to keep it that way." Not that any of them have lasted, either, but at least they mostly didn't explode.

From the doorway, Dorian says, "Christ, I think I've only had one that _didn't_." Cullen jumps and flushes, and then is embarrassed that he's embarrassed. Exactly how long has Dorian been there?

Bull gives Cullen a look as if he knows exactly what's going through his head, but when he speaks, it's to Dorian. "If you stopped sleeping with assholes, maybe you wouldn't have that problem."

Which sounds pretty harsh to Cullen, but it's clear this is another one of those in-jokes, because Dorian laughs. "Yeah, but they're usually pretty assholes." He raises his hand, and Cullen focuses on the can Dorian is holding rather than on his own embarrassment.

The label is hidden, but when Dorian kneels beside him, it turns out to have peaches, and Cullen barely manages to refrain from grabbing the can away from him. He makes himself wait until Dorian holds it out, and takes it carefully. Partly to avoid snatching it like a wild animal, partly to avoid spilling, and partly to avoid touching Dorian during the handoff. Cullen's brain is already trying to run in too many directions at once, and he doesn't need to add more to it.

Unlike the potatoes last night, the peaches aren't grainy, and they go down easily, even with his mouth still not quite back to making enough spit. Unfortunately, very like the potatoes, they taste off; Cullen suspects the problem is with his tongue, not with the food itself, but it doesn't stop his mouth from twisting up a little.

"Have they gone off?" Dorian asks, looking mildly alarmed.

"No, they're fine," Cullen hastens to reassure him. "Just...everything tastes weird right now. It'll pass."

"I can get you something else," Dorian says. "The selection is limited, but there are a few other things you can eat right now."

"It's fine," Cullen says again. "Really."

Dorian looks doubtful, but he doesn't pursue it. Instead, he turns to Bull with the can opener held up between thumb and forefinger. "So what are we having for breakfast?"

"I can eat in the dark," Cullen says, suddenly reminded that it's the middle of the night and they're only awake because of him. "Really, just because I'm up doesn't mean y'all have to be."

"I never mind being up," Dorian says, mouth straight but eyes laughing.

Bull rolls his own eyes. "We know."

"Is it _hard_ to miss?" Dorian asks, and Bull swats him on the back of the head. Cullen's a little surprised Dorian doesn't have permanent brain damage at this point, if Bull does that as often as he seems to.

"We're used to being up at odd hours," Bull says, making a point of ignoring Dorian. "We're up, might as well eat."

The nightmare is still tapping on the back of his brain, so Cullen follows them out into the kitchen. Watching them eat is still better than being by himself.

Cullen finishes the peaches long before either Bull or Dorian is finished with their food. "You can have another can, if you want," Dorian offers, then shrugs one shoulder apologetically. "Just one more, though, at least for now. We both got a long lecture on what and when and how much you could eat."

"Another would be good," Cullen says, and looks away from the stacks of cans. "And I've done this before, after the...the last time. I know how it works."

There's a heavy thump as if Dorian's dropped one of the cans, and a curse that sounds very much like it came from someone who just had something heavy land on his foot. Cullen looks back just as Dorian sets the can on the tiny table, and the look of concentration on his face as he opens it seems more than really warranted.

"We can move the food outside, if it would help," Dorian says as he offers Cullen the open can. "Not like we've got much else to do all day."

"Don't worry about it," Cullen says, digging into the peaches. "Like I said. I know the drill, I won't make myself sick."

"They warned us the cravings could be pretty intense," Dorian says doubtfully. "This isn't a willpower check. You know that, right?"

Cullen smiles. "I know. And yeah, I'm craving food, but I know what the problem is, and I can ignore it. Seriously. Don't worry about it."

Dorian is staring at him and shaking his head slowly. "You're something else, Chief," he says, and his tone is off. Cullen can't say what it means, just that it's not quite right.

Then he shakes himself and grabs his own can of breakfast off the floor. "Varric's been gone a while. I'm going to check on him, make sure he's not molesting his gun somewhere out of sight."

And he's gone, before Cullen can ask how he expects to find Varric in the dark. Cullen looks after him with some concern, but Bull just proceeds to disassemble and clean one of his guns, pausing occasionally to eat from the can at his knee.

"He'll be back," Bull says, after Cullen's stared at the door for a good five minutes.

"I know," Cullen says. "He's just...I just..." He's not sure how to finish that sentence, so he stops.

"He's been with you the whole time," Bull says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Starts to feel kinda like a good luck charm, like you're only safe if he's here."

Spelled out like that, it sounds ridiculous and childish, not to mention kind of creepy. Cullen grimaces. "The guy I saw after the last time would have a field day with that." It feels weird to talk about it so openly, but Bull's the one who brought it up before.

"That's therapists for you," Bull says. "Always making you think about shit. And talk about it, too."

"Yeah," Cullen says in mock indignation. "What's up with that?"

"Assholes, all of 'em. My dad never talked about his feelings, and he turned out fine." Bull nods once, firmly. "An abusive drunk, but he's fine! Just ask him, he'll tell you. Course, you'll have to go visit him in prison to ask, but that's got nothing to do with anything."

Cullen starts to laugh, and it helps unknot the muscles in his back. He's still not happy Dorian's out of his line of sight, but it's down to a level of anxiety he can deal with. "Sounds a lot like my granddad."

For the first time since he started cleaning his gun, Bull looks up at him. "But not your dad?"

"Nah. He was a different kind of good ol' boy. He'd cry in front of anybody if it was something worth crying about, didn't care who saw it, and he'd laugh in your face if you said it made him less of a man."

Bull looks like he wants to ask a question, but what he says is, "If you want to wash off, there's some soap. Sponge bath or nothing, but at least I won't watch you do it, unlike someone else I could name." And he points toward a bag hiding half behind the pump.

As he digs through the indicated bag, Cullen dusts off his most casual tone and asks, "Would he actually gawk at me, or just threaten to do it?"

"He's mostly harmless," Bull says, then seems to reconsider. "At least, for what we're talking about. Wouldn't want to be on the other end of his fist in a fight."

Cullen glances at him in surprise, and Bull shrugs. "He's a sneaky little bastard. If I could get my hands on him, I'd win, but he's half snake, I swear to god." A flicker of something crosses Bull's face, half smirk and half eye roll, and Cullen wonders again about their relationship.

It's still not a question he can ask, and may never become one, so he goes back to the bag and the promise of being clean for the first time in months.

"All the teasing, though?" Bull says. "He really doesn't mean anything by it."

This time, Cullen doesn't look up. The words could be warning or reassurance; both are about equally embarrassing.

"It doesn't bother me," Cullen says.

"Yeah, well, don't be afraid to tell him to fuck off if he crosses a line. He's too damn pretty for his own good sometimes, and he likes to forget that 'gay' doesn't always mean 'interested in you.' Not everybody wants that kind of attention."

At the word "gay," Cullen can't stop himself from freezing, just for a second. "Ahhh," he says. Not exactly articulate, but Bull hears all the things running through his head.

"You in the closet?" Bull asks. No telling what he thinks of people who are, and that's a neat trick, since Cullen's never met anyone who didn't have an opinion on that subject, one they were happy to throw down like a gauntlet at the least provocation.

"Uhhhh, no," Cullen says. "I just didn't mean to be that obvious."

"Obvious to me isn't obvious to everybody. Reading people's what I do, and you don't look at my sparkly friend like a straight guy would." He looks at Cullen's face and grins. "Don't worry about it, I doubt most people would've noticed. Pretty sure Pavus has missed it completely."

"Still," Cullen says. "I'm old enough to know better, and definitely old enough to have some self-control."

Bull's attention is back on his gun, his fingers surprisingly delicate as he works. "Nobody'd blame you for looking, though Christ knows Pavus doesn't need any reminders of how pretty he is."

And suddenly, the exact nature of Bull and Dorian's relationship is defensibly on the list of things Cullen can ask about. "Are you two together?" It comes out more abrupt than he meant, but at least he manages to say it without stuttering, or trailing off like a teenager.

"What, me and my sparkly friend? Nah." He doesn't appear to be lying, though Cullen suspects that Bull could lie straight-faced if he needed to. For the first time since he started on the gun, Bull pauses in his work and stares off into space as he says, "What your mom did for your dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Dorian did for me, after I came back. And I did for him, over...something else." He looks back at his hands but doesn't actually do anything with the cloth he's holding. "We've been through a lot together."

Still a little unsteady from the nightmare, Cullen is embarrassed to feel his nose burn with the beginnings of tears. He looks down at his breakfast and digs another piece out of the can without looking at Bull. A confession for a confession; he recognizes this for what it is, but it doesn't stop him from feeling honored that Bull would share even so small a glimpse into his private life with someone who is, for all intents and purposes, a stranger to him.

"So we're close," Bull says, and Cullen can hear him start working again. "But anyway. If you're not using that, I'm gonna steal it from you."

It takes Cullen a second to realize Bull means the bar of soap in his hand. "I won't take long," he promises, and turns to fill the bucket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there's not a lot in canon about Bull's father, I pretty much made shit up that worked for the story I wanted to tell. If there is actually information out there, I'm going to put my fingers in my ears, close my eyes, and chant "Lalalalala, I can't hear you!"
> 
> At this point, I'm wandering aimlessly about the landscape in search of my plot. If you see it, tell me where to find it?


	12. Who Needs Sleep?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lids down, I count sheep  
> I count heartbeats  
> The only thing that counts is  
> That I won't sleep  
> I countdown, I look around
> 
> Who needs sleep?  
> Well you're never gonna get it  
> Who needs sleep?  
> Tell me what's that for  
> Who needs sleep?  
> Be happy with what you're getting  
> There's a guy who's been awake  
> Since the Second World War
> 
> Steven Page and Ed Robertson, "Who Needs Sleep?"
> 
> ****************************
> 
> Let the head-hopping begin! I'd always intended to switch to Dorian's POV at some point, this is just a little earlier than intended. We'll be bouncing back and forth pretty regularly from now on.

As Cullen scrubs away months of dirt and sweat and filth, he concentrates on the breathing exercises he first learned a decade ago. They don't help very much at first, but he keeps at it, and eventually he starts to feel like a real human being again. A clean human being, at that. Rusty water and harsh soap get the job done, even if they wouldn't be his first choice, and he's feeling pretty good by the time he pulls his clothes back on over still-damp skin.

"You're up," he says to Bull as he laces his boots. "Think it's all right if I walk around outside for a bit?"

"Don't go too far," Bull says, standing to strip off his shirt. "But probably better if you know the terrain, just in case."

He's right, even if Cullen doesn't like the implications. "You'll be all right here by yourself?"

"If it means getting clean, I'll take my chances," Bull says, so Cullen leaves him to it.

Now that it's daylight, Cullen can see that they're tucked in a valley between two hills, hidden from almost every direction. The chances of someone stumbling on them by accident are slim, and Cullen spends an hour or so wandering around proving this to himself. Every time he turns around and can't see the cabin, he gives another sigh of relief, because if he can't see it when he knows it's there, then no one else will be able to see it either.

He gets back to the cabin just as Varric returns to drag both Cullen and Bull out to survey the area again, this time with a native guide. Varric points out places to hide and the best ways out of the valley, as well as the best vantage points. Dorian is camped in one of these with his rifle, and he gives them a distracted wave without speaking as they go past.

Everyone properly briefed, Varric makes one last check around the cabin, then tears off in a cloud of dust and grinding gears. Listening to it, Cullen winces but tries to focus on shuffling the cards. Bull suggested a card game to pass the time, and it's not like there's anything else to do.

As the day passes, Cullen glances out the window occasionally, but there's no sign of Dorian until almost dusk, and he's no sooner in the door than Bull is leaving, presumably to take up the vantage point Dorian's occupied all day.

"You got the better end of that deal," Cullen says, lighting the lantern.

"What?" Dorian asks distractedly. He's got the map out, and he's looking it over with the kind of intensity that suggests he'll be quizzed on it later.

"Guard duty," Cullen says, and waits for Dorian to look up at him before continuing, "You get to stand guard during the day and sleep at night."

Dorian grins, and Cullen tries not to show how much it affects him. He wonders what Dorian would do if Cullen leaned over and kissed him, but he's very aware of Bull's words. Whether Bull meant them to reassure him that he was safe from any unwanted advances, or warn him that Dorian wasn't as interested as his jokes made him appear, Cullen plans to treat them as the latter and act accordingly. He doesn't need to make this any more awkward than it is.

"I'd usually rather take the day shift," Dorian admits, "but I'm used to doing things other than sleeping at night."

Cullen feels his face heat and hates the pale skin that's always been his curse. There's no hiding any blush, no matter how much he wants to, and he can't even come up with a response that might divert the conversation. At thirty-nine fucking years old, he should be able think of something to say, even if he doesn't intend to flirt, but he's never been good at that, either. He falls back on mundanity, before he embarrasses himself further. "You want anything to eat?"

"I'll get something in a second," Dorian says, attention already returning to the map.

"There's soap if you want some," Cullen says, trying to prolong the conversation at least a little.

"To eat?" Dorian asks with a smirk.

"If you really want," Cullen says innocently.

"Mmmm, no thanks. Although I'm not sure I'm any more enthusiastic about cold baths."

"Ahhh, not actually cold," Cullen says. "I mean, it's not a shower, but at least it's not cold."

He has Dorian's attention again. "Please tell me you didn't try to heat that bucket on the stove."

Cullen looks at the wooden bucket and laughs. "No, I've got more sense than that." He wraps the hem of his shirt around one of the rocks that's been heating by the stove, and drops it into the bucket by way of demonstration.

"I'm guessing you were a Boy Scout," Dorian says, watching intently as Cullen drops another hot rock into the water.

"Yeah, actually," Cullen says, a little embarrassed. "It got creepy eventually, though."

"Oh, you mean you didn't like being told you were a pervert?" Dorian asks. "I've always thought it depended on who was saying it and how hot he was."

And here they are again, facing the same conversational trap Cullen was trying to avoid earlier. He clears his throat awkwardly and decides the safest plan is to ignore that last comment. "Anyway, like I said. It's not a shower, but it's not cold."

"I'll take it," Dorian says.

Cullen hands over the soap and retreats to the bedroom, because Dorian naked is not something he needs to see, not if he wants to keep his attraction a secret. Well, secret from Dorian.

At the doorway between kitchen and bedroom, Cullen makes the mistake of taking one last look just as Dorian reaches back to grab at his shirt between his shoulder blades, pulling it off over his head in one easy movement. Cullen means to look away, he really does, but for the first time, he can see the tattoo across Dorian's back and he freezes. His mouth might be hanging open a little bit; he's not sure, because the only body he can think about right now is Dorian's.

Part of the snake is hidden by his pants, but the visible section coils up his back and around almost to the point of his shoulder. Its mouth is stretched wide, fangs ready to sink into something, and Cullen wants to touch it so much his hand is moving before he catches himself. The detail is amazing, every scale perfect, and Cullen can imagine licking his way down Dorian's back, following those sinuous lines to...

 _Whoa there, old man,_ he thinks, and forces his eyes away even as he feels a spark of interest in the pit of his stomach. It's not the faint buzz from the train, either; this crosses over into real heat. It's more of a birthday candle than a raging inferno of lust, but it's the first time he's felt even that much in weeks. Months.

Nice as it is, it really doesn't make napping any easier.

###

Dorian breathes a quiet sigh of relief when Cullen's gone, and pulls his shirt off over his head. The last thing he needs right now is an audience, especially not _that_ audience. He remembers the flash of skin when Cullen used his shirt as a potholder, and it really shouldn't be even half as arousing as it is. Cullen's probably a good looking man when he's healthy, but pallid skin, hollow cheeks, and a swollen stomach don't look good on anyone.

But his physical appearance has nothing to do with Dorian's attraction, one way or the other. A much more powerful draw is the memory of Cullen saying calmly, "I know the drill, I won't make myself sick." Dorian can't imagine sitting in this shack all day with a bottle of whiskey staring at him, and he knows Cullen's craving the food as much as ever he wanted a drink. There were pages and pages of research on starvation and re-feeding to memorize before he and Bull got dropped in this shit hole of a country, but more than that second-hand knowledge, Dorian can see it in the way Cullen watches the two of them eat, in the way he holds whatever he's eating just a little too tight.

For a second, Dorian wants a drink, badly, but he doesn't drink on an op. Never did, not even during the years when he was at least three sheets to the wind for every second of his leave. It made it easier to lie to himself for a while, that he wasn't actually an alcoholic if he could spend months sober without a problem, until Bull challenged him to go a week without drinking. They were on leave together in Germany, the year after Bull went MIA, and it didn't end well.

At least, not in the short run. In the long run...in the long run, he learned ways to deal with it, and right now, he deals with it by reminding himself that he's in the middle of an op.

 _So get it together, Pavus,_ he tells himself, and starts to scrub at the dirt that's practically another tattoo by this time. Cullen's trick with the rocks has gotten the water nice and hot; it would have crossed over into too hot for anyone else, but Dorian's always preferred the heat. He'd rather boil his skin than freeze it, no matter how hot it is in this shack.

Once his body is clean, his clothing options are unfortunately limited to "dirty" and "filthy". He knocks the worst of the dust out of the least disgusting of his clothes, and goes out to find Bull.

It may be dark out, but there's half a moon to see by, and Bull's stretched out in the same place Dorian was earlier. Of all the vantage points Varric showed them, this is by far the best, and Dorian expects to spend a lot of time in it until their pickup.

He grimaces at the reminder of the change in plans. This op has seen enough disasters for which Dorian won't take responsibility, but the fact that they need a new pickup is entirely on him, and he hates that. Cullen could be halfway to Landstuhl and a hospital by now, not stuck in a shack with temptation calling his name all day, nothing to do but stare at the food he's not allowed to eat.

"What's up?" Bull asks when Dorian's close enough to hear his whisper.

"I take it back," Dorian says. "You can have the day shift."

Bull lowers the binoculars for a second and looks at Dorian skeptically. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

The only person Dorian never lies to is Bull. "There's no way I can sleep next to him and not say something stupid. I offer up last night as Exhibit A."

"Hey, he was laughing."

"Yeah, but with me, or at me?"

"With you." Before Dorian can feel any relief at this assessment, Bull adds, "Probably."

"And look. This would be you, not helping."

"Oh, sorry, didn't realize that's what I was supposed to be doing. You want me to pass him a note during study hall or something? Ask him if he wants to go to the dance with you? I'm sure his mama'll want him home by midnight, and no necking in the back seat of the car."

"Humor. Har." Dorian takes the binoculars and scans the terrain, searching for any spots of light against the green-tinted darkness. "Besides, you don't neck in the back seat. You neck in the _front_ seat, then move to the back seat for the fucking. Or whatever passes for it when you're seventeen."

"You think I spend a lot of time doing anything in cars except wishing they made the fucking things bigger?" Bull asks, and Dorian can hear the laugh in his voice.

"Fair enough," Dorian says, his mind already skipping back to Cullen, and the stupid shit that seems to fall out of his mouth whenever he's around the guy. Like admitting to his terrible history with men. "And Jesus fucking Christ. Why didn't I just make up a sign that says, 'Hi, I'm Dorian Pavus and I'm shit at relationships. I only look like a real adult.' Could have saved some time."

"Hey!" Bull protests, keeping up effortlessly with the change in topic. "Cut it out."

"Prove me wrong," Dorian says. "Name one relationship I've had that isn't best described by the phrase 'fucked up'."

"That's easy," Bull says. "Me."

Dorian rolls his eyes behind the binoculars. "That's because there's no sex involved." Bull had made that clear right from the start, that there wasn't and never would be, so long as they were working together. It had stung more than Dorian liked to admit, at least at first: he wasn't used to getting rejected, especially not at that point in his life. _Especially_ not by people he could tell were attracted to him.

"Okay," Bull says. "Rilienus."

"Fuck buddies don't count."

"So I don't count because you haven't slept with me, and Rilienus doesn't count because you have? Seriously?" Before Dorian can answer, he adds, "Mae, then."

"Family doesn't count, either."

"With your family? It fucking well does, since I think they have a bet on for who can squeeze the most dysfunctions into one relationship. And quit playing Calvin-ball."

Changing the rules, just so he can win. Dorian smiles. "Okay, fine. I surrender."

"Good," Bull says, taking the binoculars back. "Now maybe we can focus on something almost as important. Like, I dunno, this op we're in the middle of? You need to get your head straight, man."

"That might be difficult," Dorian says dryly.

"Fine, not straight. Get it in order, then. If you want to act like a teenager when we get home, be my guest, but until someone's telling me 'Guten Morgen,' you need to lock it down."

Embarrassed, Dorian looks away. "You're right." He's usually a lot better at compartmentalizing than this. He'd like to pretend it's because this op has gone tits-up, but he was doing fine up until Cullen fell down that hill trying to avoid an imaginary snake. That's when it crossed the line from the casual flirting Dorian rarely bothers to turn off, into actual interest.

"And yes," Bull says with a sigh. "I'll take the day shift." By way of a handoff, he whacks Dorian in the arm with the binoculars. "Try not to fall asleep."

Words they've thrown at each other for almost a decade. Dorian grins and accepts the binoculars.

###

It takes Cullen two days to decide that Dorian really is avoiding him. The suspicion forms when he wakes in the middle of the night to Bull's quiet breathing, and it's only confirmed as time goes by. Bull sleeps a good part of his twelve hours off each day, but Dorian sleeps almost all of his. Or at least, he lies on his sleeping bag with his eyes closed, pretending to sleep. It might be a more convincing act if he didn't keep it up even when Cullen makes a loud noise that should startle anyone who was actually asleep.

Not that Cullen goes out of his way to make loud noises to see if Dorian jumps, but certain tasks are pretty much impossible to do quietly, and Cullen will admit to one or two experiments in the name of testing his hypothesis.

The question of whether Dorian is avoiding him is settled by the end of the second day, but the why continues to plague Cullen. It's not like there's a wide range of possibilities. Dorian was fine when they went to sleep the first night in the cabin; by the end of breakfast six hours later, he'd begun Operation Avoidance. In the space of those six hours, only two things of note happened--Cullen's nightmare and Cullen's fit of over-sharing--and whichever one is the problem, they're both Cullen's fault.

The more Dorian avoids him, the more awkward Cullen feels in the rare moments when they're both awake and in the same place at the same time. By the end of the first week, he's avoiding Dorian every bit as much as Dorian's avoiding him, just to escape those uncomfortable silences. Avoiding them doesn't mean they don't happen, but with Dorian speaking to him in monosyllables, it's not like there's a way to figure out what's going on.

As if Cullen needs something else to keep him awake at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found my plot! It's a wily beast, but I think I have it pinned down.
> 
> For now, anyway.


	13. Live that Life of Blood and Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from a marching cadence, of which there are approximately seven hundred versions. The version I learned starts, "I wanna be an Airborne Ranger, live that life of blood and danger!" And then proceeds to get pretty disgusting, so let's stop there.  
> ***********************  
> Writing this chapter wasn't the hard part; re-writing it to something that fit the mood of the rest of the story was damn near a Herculean task. Let's just say that the first draft was waaaay darker than I wanted it to be (and it didn't help that my muse decided to hold this story hostage all last week). I hope the end result doesn't give anybody whiplash from the POV changes, and that I managed to dial the grim back a sufficient number of notches.
> 
> Oh, and there's this conversation in the game, if you play a rogue and choose the assassin specialization, where Dorian basically says to you, "You know, when this whole Inquisition thing is wrapped up, if you find you need work, I know people who know people who need assassins from time to time." It wasn't exactly a side of Dorian I was expecting, but it stuck in my head and influenced this chapter a bit.

Dorian wouldn't go so far as to call the next two weeks torture--and certainly not in Cullen's hearing--but it's damn close. The two of them exchange maybe a dozen words, and Cullen's desire to be anywhere except near Dorian becomes painfully obvious. They stick to separate rooms as much as possible, and Dorian works to keep his mind on the op.

The only time he slips is early on the morning of the fourth day. Just off his shift on watch, he stumbles into the bedroom to find Cullen sprawled out asleep, half on his side and half on his back, his chin tipped up to the ceiling. Something about the angle draws Dorian's attention to his neck, to the lines made by tendons and muscles. He would swear he can see Cullen's pulse beating slowly in his throat, and he wants to press his lips to it, kiss his way up to the spot under Cullen's ear and suck on it until Cullen groans.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, Dorian blocks it and goes right back out into the kitchen, where he hits his head gently against the door jamb several times. Then he sits at the table and looks over the map until he hears Cullen stirring. Only once Cullen has emerged from the bedroom and bid him a strained good morning does Dorian lie down on his sleeping bag for another day of pretending to sleep.

It makes for a very long two weeks.

It's mid-afternoon on the sixteenth day when he hears the jeep approaching, growling its way up the valley, and Dorian has never been so glad to hear someone drive a manual transmission so badly. Kissing Varric would probably be a bit too weird for all involved, but Dorian's sorely tempted.

As the jeep comes closer, he leaves Cullen in the shack and goes outside to wait. He keeps the M-16 in his hands because while it's probably Varric, he's not going to make any assumptions. When the jeep pulls to a stop in a cloud of dust, Dorian's glad he brought the gun, because it isn't Varric who jumps from the driver's seat. It's someone Dorian doesn't know, a skinny guy in his early twenties, wearing a faded t-shirt and a pair of jeans that might be older than he is. Dorian smiles, but keeps the M-16 pointed at their visitor.

Smart kid that he is, said visitor holds out his hands, palms toward Dorian, and says in lightly accented English, "Varric says hello."

Before he'd left, they'd discussed a couple of plans, and they'd all known it might not be possible for Varric to return for them himself. Too many variables at that point, starting with the time and location of the pickup. So they'd agreed on a pass phrase, just in case; something Varric could provide to his chosen messenger.

"Varric says hello" wasn't it.

Well, shit.

Dorian continues to smile anyway, dropping the barrel of the gun down and to the right without letting go of the grip. "About damn time," he says. "Where are we headed?"

"There have been problems," the guy says apologetically.

"Nothing new there," Dorian says.

"New problems. I must speak to all of you together. Your friend is on watch, yes? You can get him, and we will talk."

Yeah, right. And Dorian has a bridge in Brooklyn he needs to sell cheap.

In the half second available to him, Dorian considers his options. The simplest and most obvious is to just shoot the guy, but that's only effective if he's alone. Taking the guy into the shack traps him in a small space with no way to see what's happening outside, but it traps Dorian and Cullen, too. Staying right here is an option, but Dorian's job is to protect Cullen, a job that's going to be ten times harder if Cullen doesn't even realize he's in danger. And if their visitor wants Bull down from his perch, then it's probably because he's got friends coming.

Fuck.

No way to know how long they've got before reinforcements arrive, or whether this guy is in contact with them. On the plus side, he doesn't appear to be armed, and the fact that he wants Dorian to fetch Bull implies he doesn't actually know where they've set up their station.

All of which goes through Dorian's head in the amount of time it would have taken most people to weigh the relative merits of, "I don't know him, but he knows the pass phrase."

Decision made, Dorian flicks the safety on and slings the M-16 over his shoulder. "Welcome to our humble abode," he says, opening the shack's door with a flamboyant bow.

Their visitor gives him the side-eye but goes inside, and Dorian follows.

Cullen's standing by the window, where he's clearly been watching and listening. His gun is holstered, and he looks relaxed, more at ease than at any point in the last month, as if his mind is already focused on home.

"Varric says hello," Dorian says, in case Cullen couldn't hear.

"Great," Cullen says with every sign of enthusiasm, and Dorian curses silently. It was probably unreasonable to expect someone without any experience in covert ops to remember the pass phrase. Or maybe he does remember it, but thinks "Varric says hello" is somehow an acceptable substitute.

Either way, he's clueless, and that means Dorian needs him out of here. "You want to run up and get Ben?"

It's about the only clue he dares to give, and by the unconcerned nod he gets back, Cullen doesn't remember Dorian's casual aside from the first night. Bloody buggering fuck.

"Hurry, please," their visitor says, and Dorian hopes that's a sign he's not actually in contact with whoever's on the way.

Cullen looks suddenly doubtful. "I'll do the best I can," he says, "but I'm still pretty slow."

Which isn't true, and Dorian knows it. Two weeks of food and rest have Cullen, if not back to normal, at least way ahead of where he was. Maybe he does realize how much trouble they're in?

As a foundation on which to base any real hope, it kind of sucks, but it's all Dorian's got right now.

###

Cullen lets the door swing closed and stands blinking in the sunlight, shading his eyes as if trying to get his bearings, using the time to think. The fact that their new arrival wants him to hurry implies there's a schedule to keep, and that in turn implies that Cullen could screw it up by dawdling.

Of course, he could also get Dorian killed, a thought that makes his stomach clench unpleasantly and gives him a sudden, deep understanding of why the army has rules against fraternization. Twenty years as the dutiful soldier, and he's tempted to chuck it all to see that Dorian doesn't end up dead. Fuck the army and fuck the secret he's managed to protect for two months; part of him considers it a fair trade for the life of one guy who knew what he was getting into when he came here.

If there's a way to have both, Cullen can't think of it right now.

He pushes all that aside and looks around for any sign of the reinforcements that pretty much have to be on their way. Nothing moves on the hills around him, but that doesn't mean anything, so he assumes the worst--that someone up there is watching him--and turns toward one of the lookout points that Varric showed them, one he knows Bull isn't currently occupying. He waves as if to a person, an exaggerated beckoning wave exactly like he might give if he wanted Bull to come down without having to climb up to say so. Bull's actual perch is off to Cullen's left, and he'll know what it means that Cullen doesn't come to get him when their supposed ride is here. As an added bonus, no one will be able to locate Bull by watching Cullen.

Cullen waits a bit, shifting his weight impatiently, then sighs and begins making his way up the hill, as if going to fetch Bull. He doesn't look up again, no matter how much he wants to know if anyone is busily creeping down the valley toward them. Either they are or they aren't, and whichever one it is, there's nothing he can do about it. About all he can do is reveal that he knows something's up, and since the only advantage they have right now is that their enemies think they're clueless, that would be pretty stupid.

So Cullen keeps his head down and climbs, praying he'll think of something by the time he gets to the top.

###

As the door swings shut behind Cullen, Dorian leans casually against the wall by the pump, running through plans, discarding this one, keeping a piece of that one and two pieces of another one, until he has something workable. Probably.

Bull's pack leans against one wall, and Dorian crosses the room to riffle through it, producing the can opener with a flourish. Their visitor's eyes follow the motion-- _amateur,_ Dorian thinks--and while he's distracted, Dorian palms a pair of zip cuffs and tucks them into his pocket.

Climbing back to his feet, he jerks his head at the stacked cans. "You hungry?" he asks. "Not the best meal you'll ever eat, but it won't kill you."

"No, thank you," the guy says, polite and impatient at the same time. He cranes his neck to peer out the window. "Your friend will be back soon?"

"I hope so," Dorian lies. "I probably should have gone instead of him, but I wasn't thinking." He rolls his shoulder to make sure the M-16's strap is secure, and comes up behind the guy as if he, too, is looking after Cullen. "Can you see him?"

Instinctively, the guy looks--definitely an amateur--taking his eyes off Dorian for one precious second. In that second, Dorian grabs one of the cans and clubs him in the back of the head with it, knocking him to the ground. While he's still stunned, Dorian flips him onto his stomach and gets the cuffs around his wrists, yanking them tight.

Bouncing back to his feet and leaving his prisoner on the floor, he returns to Bull's pack to pull out the next thing he needs, the olive green canvas rough in his hands.

The guy is thrashing against the cuffs when Dorian squats beside him, but he goes still when he sees what Dorian's carrying.

"I'm going to assume you know what this is," Dorian says conversationally, "but just in case you don't, let me explain."

The guy tries to spit on him, which isn't terribly effective from his current position. He also calls Dorian several interesting names in Farsi, and then for good measure, throws in a few insults against his mother in Kabuli.

"Is any of that supposed to offend me?" Dorian asks in Farsi. As the guy's eyes are still widening in reaction, Dorian adds in Kabuli, "Because I'm reasonably sure I've heard worse from twelve-year-old girls."

Before his prisoner can recover whatever limited wits he possesses, Dorian sets the bag down on the ground. "Where was I? Oh yes. This is what we like to call a claymore. It's an anti-personnel mine, all dropkicked and ready to go." He flips open the bag and lifts the mine partway out of its pouch, just enough to show the front.

"So let's see. What does this side say?" He pretends to squint at the letters embossed on the mine. "It says, 'Front toward enemy.'" Turning the claymore over, he adds, "And this says 'Back.'"

As he pulls the canvas up around the mine again, he says, "Don't you love the army? So many things can go wrong out in the field, and they do like to limit the potential for deadly stupidity."

His prisoner is silent, frowning mutinously, but there's a glint of fear in his eyes that says he knows exactly where Dorian is going with this.

"I'm leaving in a few minutes. When I go, my friend," he pats the claymore gently, "will stay here, to meet your friends coming in. You, of course, will not be coming with me, but I have several choices about where I can leave you. And not being a complete asshole, I'll make sure you have something to read when I go, so you don't get bored." He touches the claymore again, pointedly. "Totally up to you which side of this you're reading when I walk out that door."

The guy swallows hard, then harder when Dorian pulls the blasting cap from the bag and holds it up to the light.

"Now that we've got that out of the way," he says, grimly satisfied, "let's talk."

###

At the lookout point, Cullen slides into the shallow cave and takes stock of his situation. He's still got the MK 23 that Dorian gave him back at the beginning, and the lookout point has a small pack with food, a couple canteens, and a few extra magazines. He's got the GPS, too, tucked in one pocket where he's carried it for the last few weeks. Last but not least, he has the half dozen contingency plans that were drilled into his head, with Bull giving him the occasional pop quiz just to be sure he hadn't forgotten.

What he doesn't have is Bull or Dorian, and he hesitates, looking back down into the valley. Nothing stirs except the dust, blown by a slight breeze.

 _Time to move, Rutherford,_ he tells himself. _You know the plan._ And he's seen first-hand the kind of fuck-ups that result from people deciding to do their own thing just because they don't like the plan. Plans can change, but "I don't want them to die" isn't a good reason, not in this situation. It's an emotional reason, not a soldier's reason.

So he takes one last look around the valley, then he shoulders the pack and starts down the far side of the hill, going as quietly as he can. This is one of the escape routes Varric showed them, nearly impossible to find from the bottom of the hill and steep enough it would be a bitch to climb up. Down isn't all that easy, either, as he struggles to save himself from making the entire descent on his ass. After a dozen or so steps, he pauses to listen, hoping for some sign of what's happening in the valley behind him, but there's nothing.

Walk a few steps, slide a few steps, listen, and every time, there's nothing. Always nothing.

Right up until there's something: a scuff of feet ahead of him, and the sound of pebbles skittering down the hill, as if someone slipped very briefly.

###

Dorian checks his prisoner's cuffs again, and the duct tape now covering his mouth, then steps outside, hands in the small of his back as if he's just having a brief stretch. A quick scan doesn't turn up anything, not even Cullen, and Dorian can only hope he's doing what he was told. His and Bull's objective is to get Cullen home; anything else is a nice bonus, but not required. That includes getting home themselves.

He's in no hurry to die, but right now, he feels better than he has in weeks. The adrenaline rushing through him has cleaned out everything else, and he can finally think again. What he's going to do about Cullen has been relegated to the back of his mind, where it rightly belongs in the middle of an op, and instead, his brain is running possibilities and probabilities while he waits to be sure Bull has seen him.

And Christ does he want real communication back, the ability to tell Bull exactly what's happened and find out in turn what Bull can see from his perch. It's not like they have a prearranged signal for "I've subdued one enemy, threatened him into giving me information that I hope is actually true, and now plan to lay an ambush for his friends using the last of our mines, always assuming they're not watching me right now; tell me, how many of his friends are on their way and from which directions?"

He's got to settle for "situation under control, stay where you are."

 _Fuck this,_ he thinks, and not for the first time, but it's all he can do not to bounce on his toes like a kid on Christmas.

When he's sure he's given Bull enough time to see him, he walks around the outside of the shack, strolling as if he has all the time in the world. Tapping out a cigarette from the pack he took off his prisoner, he lights it and tries not to breathe too deeply.

 _The things I do for you, Chief,_ he thinks with a grin.

He ambles some more, looking around as he lets the cigarette burn down, just a guy out for a smoke while he waits, nothing unusual or suspicious. Not that Dorian can see anyone who might be a potential audience for his little act, but no point in being stupid now.

_These are not the soldiers you're looking for._

The shack itself was built fairly close to one of the hills, hiding the back wall from anyone not actually on that particular hill. Eventually Dorian's wandering path takes him through that narrow strip of ground between hill and building, and he pauses there to re-check his memory. He can't see a damn thing, just dirt and splintery wood and the narrow cleft leading down the hill. Another one of Varric's escape routes, and Dorian must remember to tell him exactly how useful this one proved to be.

He continues out the other side until he's circled the entire shack at that same casual pace. Just outside the door, he stops to "smoke" the last of the cigarette, standing hipshot and vaguely bored, scanning the hills as best he can without being obvious about it. When the cigarette has burned down to the filter, he flicks the lit end hard enough to extinguish it and tucks the butt in his pocket. Not like it's going to be a secret they were here, but it's an old habit to clean up any trace of his presence, one he's not interested in trying to break.

Back inside, his prisoner glares at him from the floor by the pump. His wrists are cut and bleeding where he struggled against the zip cuffs while Dorian was gone, and a corner of the duct tape gag is peeling up on one side where he's been rubbing it against the floor or his shoulder.

Dorian clicks his tongue disapprovingly. "I try to be civilized, and see what it gets me." He grabs the duct tape again and proceeds to wrap it several times around his prisoner's head, sealing the original gag in place. It's going to hurt like a son of a bitch when someone finally takes it off, and he'll end up looking like he has mange, but that's really not Dorian's problem.

Despite the guy's struggles, the zip cuffs are still in good shape--better shape than the wrists they're wrapped around--so Dorian doesn't bother replacing them. He just pats the guy on the shoulder and goes back into the bedroom to finish laying his ambush.

The first thing he does is kick a hole in the dry wood of the back wall, knocking boards loose until there's enough room for him to crawl through. Then it's three trips down and back up the hill: his prisoner first, since all dramatic threats aside, any place close enough to read the words on the claymore is too close to avoid getting hit when it blows; then two more trips with packs and filled canteens.

He's starting to get nervous by the end of the third trip, and he sets the claymore fast: up against the wall between the bedroom and the kitchen, under one of the sleeping bags, the wires running under the floorboards and out of the shack a few feet to the left of the hole. One last quick look around for anything he might have missed, and then he's crawling out of the shack for the last time.

###

Crouching in the gulley, Cullen draws the MK 23 as silently as he can, listening intently. Now that he has a direction, he thinks he can hear those feet continuing up the hill, though there are no more tiny rock slides to help with the echo-location.

He struggles briefly with himself, and with the desire to attack whoever's currently creeping up the hill. Running away from a fight isn't his style, never mind that he's in no condition for a fistfight and that a gunshot would be heard for miles. He feels like a coward, even though the rational part of him knows better.

The footsteps continue on past him and up the hill. When they've faded completely, Cullen resumes his slow, careful descent, keeping the gun in his hand and his ears open.

He's most of the way down the hill when the shooting begins up at the cabin. This time, he doesn't stop, just keeps his attention on the ground in front of him and tries not to think about Dorian with a bullet hole between his eyes.

 _Dorian can take care of himself._ Cullen remembers that firm grip on his arm, walking him out of the prison like everything was perfectly normal. He remembers Dorian laughing--fucking _laughing_ \--at the gate checkpoint, trading jokes with whoever was on duty. _You're the one who got caught in the first place,_ he reminds himself. _They don't need your help._

Which isn't entirely fair, but it keeps him moving in the right direction, and that's what matters right now.

On a ledge twenty or so feet from the bottom of the hill, he pauses to listen again. Above and behind him, the shooting has stopped, but directly ahead, he can hear someone talking in a low voice. Not Dorian, not Bull, not Varric. Which means no one Cullen wants to talk to.

Moving slowly to avoid attracting attention, he peers over the edge of the rock he's lying on. Four guys, armed and on high alert, are huddled on the far side of a jeep almost as battered as Varric's. He can't tell for sure, but none of them appear to be wearing body armor.

His hands aren't shaking as badly as they were, and he's confident he could get one of them before they realize he's here, but those are automatic rifles. It only needs one of them to pin him down while the others circle around to his position.

A shower of pebbles from above: someone coming down the hill fast, making no attempt at stealth. It could be anyone, but Bull and Dorian have both proven how quietly they can move, and anyone coming that fast has to be confident they're going to meet friends and not enemies at the bottom. He can't fight five guys at once, not from two directions.

Maybe if he shoots one of the guys by the jeep, their return fire would catch whoever's coming up behind him? Or it might pin him down just as the new arrival gets to him.

Another slide of dirt and rocks, almost on top of him, and Cullen knows he's out of time.

###

Dorian waits, clacker in hand, and tries to breathe quietly. He can't see a damn thing from here, but since he has no interest in being seen or getting a faceful of shrapnel from his own mine, he doesn't have many choices. God help him if they've found and subdued Bull. Since it's unlikely they managed to do that in complete silence, Dorian just keeps waiting.

There's a scuffling noise that might be the wind or might be someone trying to move quietly on shitty terrain. Dorian strains his ears toward it, and when it's repeated a few seconds later, he smiles, fingers stroking gently over the clacker.

A shout and a small explosion--smoke grenade?--then at least five pairs of booted feet are thudding on the shack's wooden floor. At almost the same time, a rifle fires twice in quick succession, from the right direction to be Bull. Dorian puts his arms over his head just to be on the safe side and squeezes the clacker.

The claymore explodes, the ball bearings inside tearing apart everything in their path. There's a scream, then that sound is drowned by a crash as the shack, never all that structurally sound to begin with, collapses in on itself, throwing out splintered wood and bent nails at anyone who might still be standing in the vicinity.

Bull fires again, and Dorian raises his head cautiously, coming up on his elbows so he can see the pile of lumber that used to be a building. Through the dust, he sees a man-sized shadow moving on the other side of the rubble, a shadow that collapses as Bull fires again.

As the dust settles, Dorian can see the area around the shack. Under the debris, someone's legs kick weakly, and Dorian makes a mental note to deal with that in a second. Otherwise, nothing's moving, not as far as he can see or hear.

He raises the M-16 and lets off a brief burst in the direction of those moving legs, then ducks back down immediately. Still nothing, and Bull doesn't fire again.

Dorian gives it a slow count of ten, then pops his head back up for half a second. No one shoots, so he comes back up on his elbows, listening intently, watching the ruins of the shack for any sign that someone survived the claymore's explosion and the ensuing collapse. High up on the hill, Bull's on the move, sliding through the scree and rocks at speed. Dorian stays where he is, waiting and watching, but nothing happens except Bull getting steadily closer. Not even that pair of half-buried legs are moving now.

Bull pauses a few feet shy of the rubble, looking around, and Dorian scrambles to his feet. For just a second, Bull grins in relief, then he's back to business.

"Your boy went that way," Bull says, jerking his chin to the left.

"Shit," Dorian says. "Assuming he wasn't lying, my new friend has some other new friends down there waiting. Two, probably taking cover behind a jeep."

"I'll go," Bull says. "Find a place if you can, see if you can cover us."

"Got it," Dorian says. He's barely closed his hands around the sniper rifle before Bull is off, his longer legs eating up the ground.

In the back of Dorian's brain, a small voice is panicking, but now isn't the time, and he ignores it. If Cullen gets shot or recaptured, then everything they've done is for nothing. Not to mention-

He cuts that off. _Don't mention it, then._

If Cullen went over the hill Bull indicated, then he almost certainly used the narrow pass Varric showed them the first day. That path curves a bit on the way down, so Cullen would likely have ended up almost on top of the two men left on guard at the base of the hill. Shit.

On the plus side, the lookout point closest to Dorian's current position should give him a clear view of their position and the bottom twenty feet or so of the hill itself.

He climbs fast, juggling the M-16 and the sniper rifle without managing to drop either one, and goes to his belly just shy of the crest of the hill. Leaving the M-16 where he can get to it quickly, he low-crawls the last distance until he can see what's waiting for them, and breathes a small sigh of relief. Four guys instead of the two he was told about, but that's a lie he can live with. Cullen's nowhere in sight, and although the guys at the base of the hill are on high alert, huddled in the jeep's shelter, they don't actually appear to be focused on any particular threat.

A cloud of dust at the top of the hill, and Dorian catches a glimpse of Bull sliding down, trying to draw as much attention as possible. Dorian grins and props the M-24's bipod on a handy rock to start playing with the sights, working as fast as he can. One of the guys behind the jeep is already sneaking his head up, aiming in Bull's direction but waiting for a clean shot.

Dorian's barely finished fiddling with the sights when a gun fires, too low on the hill to be Bull. It almost has to be Cullen, and Dorian lets out a soft "ha!" as the guy who was taking aim on Bull falls backward into one of his buddies.

That's one.

The remaining three huddle together for a brief second, then one of them raises his gun without putting up his head and fires off a brief burst in Cullen's direction. The other two dart around opposite sides of the jeep while their friend covers them, short bursts to keep Cullen--and now Bull--pinned down. The guy providing the suppressing fire is pretty well hidden by the jeep, but the other two aren't so fortunate.

Everything else falls away as Dorian takes aim at one of the two about to climb the hill. There's an outcropping of rock currently blocking everything except the guy's legs, but he'll have to leave that protection to get to Cullen.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

The guy's head, tucked low between his shoulders, rises above the rock.

Exhale.

Fire.

That's two.

The guy behind the jeep ducks involuntarily, spraying a line of bullets only vaguely in Dorian's direction. The second one, the one who knows he's exposed, ducks behind another rock. Only, in his haste to protect himself from Dorian, he breaks cover from the other side, and either Bull or Cullen shoots him.

That's three.

Now it's a test of patience, but like this? Dorian can wait forever. He keeps the rifle trained on the jeep, finger poised but not tense.

Wait. Wait.

A rock comes flying out from where Bull and Cullen are hiding, skipping over the ground toward the jeep. The last guy leans sideways to fire at what he probably assumes is someone trying to sneak up on him. It's not a large movement, but it's enough.

Exhale.

Fire.

And that's four.


	14. On the Road Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goin' places that I've never been  
> Seein' things that I may never see again
> 
> And I can't wait to get on the road again  
> On the road again  
> Like a band of gypsies we go down the highway
> 
> Willie Nelson, "On The Road Again"

In the silence that follows the rifle's second shot, Cullen waits and listens, but he hears nothing.

"How many were there?" Bull asks, leaning close enough to whisper.

"Four that I saw," Cullen says. He shot one, Bull shot one, and there were two shots from the rifle. Of course, two shots fired doesn't mean two hits. "You think Dorian got the other two?"

"Yup," Bull says, as if Cullen asked if the sky was blue. He shifts a little closer to the narrow path down the hill, then looks back over his shoulder. "Stay put, and try not to get me shot."

He's grinning, but Cullen mutters, "Sorry." Again.

"It was a good plan, Chief," Bull says, almost laughing. "Except, you know, that it was me coming down the hill. From now on, you bet I'll call ahead. Just wasn't expecting you to be there."

And he's gone, off to check the bodies and make sure there isn't anyone still alive. Cullen stays in his crouch, listening intently, but he doesn't hear anything out of the ordinary until Bull calls, "We're clear, Chief. C'mon down."

Cullen stands slowly, shaking the stiffness from his legs before he attempts the last of the hill. By the time he reaches the bottom, the jeep is already running, Bull at the wheel, so Cullen just hauls himself into the passenger seat.

As he settles into it, he asks, "Do you think Varric's okay?" Now that no one's shooting at them, it's the question weighing heaviest on his mind. The guy who showed up at the cabin knew enough to use Varric's name, and that can't be a good sign.

"Varric can get out of damn near anything," Bull says, then slams the jeep into gear before Cullen can point out that he didn't actually answer the question. There's no chance to talk as Bull heads back toward the one drivable path up the hill, and Cullen lets it go.

Two weeks of rest and real food are just enough to give him the energy for a fight so long as the adrenaline's flowing, without giving him any reserves to draw on now that the fight is over. If his fingers weren't still tingling, he might actually fall asleep despite the bumpy ride, and that would be damn embarrassing. He keeps his eyes open and forces himself to sit upright, just as an added precaution.

When they get back to Dorian, Cullen forgets about being tired and just stares, because there's now a pile of lumber and bodies where the cabin used to be. He climbs down slowly, shaking his head, while Bull looks over the damage.

Dorian is slinging the last of their gear in the back of the other jeep, and he gives them a manic grin. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Come here often?" Bull asks. Then he jerks his chin at the ruined cabin. "Not bad."

"So long as we don't need that mine somewhere else," Dorian says cheerfully.

"Claymore?" Cullen asks, walking over to stand by Bull.

"The last of them," Dorian confirms. "But I decided now wasn't the time to be stingy. False economy, all that shit." He rocks his head, left and then right, cracking his neck audibly. "So tell me, Chief: did you actually know something was wrong, or did we just get stupid lucky?"

If there was a little less adrenaline running through him, Cullen might be offended at the assumption that he's an idiot. "It was hard to miss," he says. "I mean, even if I'd forgotten the passphrase, you pretty much waved a flag in my face."

Dorian laughs and slings an arm around Cullen's shoulders as he says to Bull, "We should keep this one."

Bull raises one eyebrow, and Cullen would give a lot of money to know what comment he's holding back, because all he says is, "Oh?"

"When I sent him out to get you, all I said was, 'Go get Ben.' Couldn't think what else to say that wouldn't give the game away." His arm tightens around Cullen, his right cheek almost pressed to Cullen's left as he grins at Bull. "And you didn't even blink, Chief."

"Well, you said he was called Bull unless he was up shit creek," Cullen says, and he's glad his voice doesn't shake. Dorian is _way_ too close, and Cullen's body is perfectly happy to take all that adrenaline and redirect it from fighting to fucking. Not that he would get very far--less than three weeks from a starvation diet, some parts of him are slower to recover than others--but he's just as glad that Bull is here to save him from the embarrassment of trying anything. Dorian's high on adrenaline, that's all.

"And _you_ remembered," Dorian crows, turning to plant a smacking kiss on Cullen's cheek.

Which is the point where Cullen decides he's had enough, and twists free of Dorian's grip before he does something phenomenally stupid. Dorian looks startled, but before he can say anything, Bull says, "You gentlemen ready to roll?"

"Sir yes sir!" Dorian barks out with a sharp salute, and gets a slap on the back of the head from Bull for it.

"We good on gas?" Bull asks.

"Wouldn't hurt to top it up," Dorian says. "I nominate you."

"Go siphon the damn gas, Sparkler. You're the one who likes to suck things."

Cullen's face turns red, but Dorian is laughing as he digs through the back of jeep that has their gear in it. He comes up with a gas can and a hose, and trots toward the other jeep humming to himself; the tune is "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," but Cullen would bet that "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord" aren't the words running through Dorian's head.

Watching him work, it's obvious he's done this before, because he manages to get gas from the jeep's tank into the gas can without actually getting any in his mouth. Just the thought makes Cullen's tongue try to go into hiding, but Dorian keeps humming away.

Topping up the tank in what Cullen is coming to think of as their jeep, Dorian glances around for Bull, who's over by the ruined cabin poking at the bodies. "Sorry, Chief," he says, keeping his voice low and not looking at Cullen. "About earlier. I get a little carried away sometimes, and I'm used to it being just Bull and me."

"Don't worry about it," Cullen says with a casual shrug, though he can still feel the place Dorian kissed him. "Shit happens. Nice shooting, by the way."

Now Dorian looks at him, one eyebrow raised. "Don't spend much time around snipers, do you? That barely qualified as an exercise."

"Well, as the guy who was going to get shot if you hadn't been there, I'd say it was fucking amazing."

Dorian grins, but it's a little off, dimmed from its earlier manic cheer. "Glad I was here, then."

Cullen doesn't have a chance to respond to that--which is just as well, since he's not sure how--because Bull is coming back and Dorian turns all his attention to finishing with the gas.

###

They drive through the night, Bull and Dorian trading off while Cullen tries to sleep in the back seat. Between the shitty road conditions and the gnawing hunger and the constant fear, mostly what he does is stare at the dark blurs passing by outside the jeep. Around midnight, Dorian asks Cullen to pass him up a canteen and some food; it's the only time anyone speaks.

A few hours later, they stop long enough to put on the robes that have spent the last two weeks crammed in the bottom of Cullen's pack. Not that a few new wrinkles can do much to them: they're sturdy--serviceable rather than ornamental--and while the wool does itch, at least the hood will hide his face somewhat. He's just glad Bull insisted on keeping up the dye on his hair over the last two weeks, no matter how bad it smelled.

As they drive, the road begins to widen and smooth out, turning to gravel and then finally to pavement. Other vehicles appear occasionally now, despite the hour, and although Cullen tenses at each one, he manages to stay mostly calm. Even once they're in real traffic, in a real city, the anxiety stays a low-grade hum in the back of his head. He's feeling pretty good when Dorian parks the jeep on a tiny side street and begins hauling gear out of the back.

Once again, Cullen ends up with the smallest and lightest pack, and he takes it as a sign he's recovering that he almost argues. Dorian's head shake and quelling look kill the words before he opens his mouth.

"No talking," Dorian says quietly, a reminder that he's the only one of them who has any chance of not sounding like an American. "And keep your heads covered."

Bull takes the lead, Dorian the rear, and within a block, Cullen's surrounded by people for the first time in months. It's unexpectedly overwhelming, like getting knocked over by a freak tsunami while standing in a kiddie pool. He can't breathe, and he can't get free, and...

Dorian says something to him. Cullen doesn't know the language, but the tone is familiar, soothing, a reminder that he's not alone. The vice on his chest eases up, just enough that he can focus on the back of Bull's robe and keep walking. He doesn't even try to take in his surroundings, trusting Bull and Dorian to warn him if there's danger. Real danger, that is, not the danger his own limbic system is inventing.

Not until Bull's hand is pressing on the top of his head, guiding him through a low door, does he even realize they've moved inside. He bends with the pressure, letting Bull and Dorian guide him through narrow corridors and up rickety stairs, until they're in a tiny room barely large enough for the three of them and their gear. Once the door is shut, the only light comes from gaps and cracks in the boards on the outside wall.

Bull steers Cullen toward that wall, pushing him down to sit before kneeling in front of him. "You okay, Chief?" he asks.

"Mostly," Cullen says.

"Let me know if that changes," Bull says, and Cullen nods. "Been a long day. You want to sleep a bit?"

At this point, sleep is the last thing Cullen wants. His nerves are still sparking with random bursts of adrenaline, and his stomach is trying to take up permanent residence in the same space as his heart and lungs. "Not right now," he says.

"Okay." Bull rises easily to his feet and tosses his pack to the other side of the room. "Eat something if you can."

After three weeks, he's relatively close to a normal diet again, except for the quantities. He still gets full too quickly, and then hungry again just as quickly, and he's eating as much as Bull despite being at least fifty pounds lighter even when he was healthy. At least he's not limited to sludge and canned fruit anymore.

Of course, this means that he gets to gnaw his way through a couple protein bars with Bull and Dorian, something that's going to get boring fast.

"You know," Cullen says, "I think I'd kill for anything that didn't come out of a can or a plastic wrapper. Even a fucking bowl of cereal sounds good." He's relieved at how normal he sounds. There's still an unpleasant trembling in his chest, but at least he hasn't fallen completely apart.

"This _is_ something the recruiter failed to mention," Dorian allows, then adds in tones of deep disgust, "'Join the army,' they said! 'See the world,' they said!"

"Can't say they lied, though," Bull points out. "You did get to see the world on Uncle Sam's dime."

"Not the parts I wanted to see," Dorian says as he stands up.

"Shoulda read the fine print then, huh?"

"Caveat emptor. Cave miles?"

"Miles? I thought your name was Dorian," Bull says.

"Humor. Har." He stretches his arms over his head, and he has to bend his wrists to keep from hitting the ceiling. "I'll be back, don't wait up."

Cullen hasn't even finished processing the words before he's gone, and the silence that follows is heavy. With his body still wound too tight, seeing Dorian walk out the door makes his hands move involuntarily, and he clenches them into fists. He will _not_ grab the man like he's a fucking security blanket. No, no, and fuck no.

"Game, Chief?" Bull asks, and Cullen looks at him and the deck of cards in his hand.

"Sure," Cullen says, folding his legs in to make room for Bull to sit. "So long as we're not playing War."

Bull thinks about it, an expression of deep contemplation on his face. "I think we can manage that," he says at last, as if granting a concession. "But just because you're a friend of mine."

###

They play for a while, a hand of this and a few hands of that without saying much. While Cullen doesn't usually mind Dorian's talking, Bull's quiet is soothing after the last twelve hours, and he's grateful for the chance to regain his balance without Dorian's presence to knock him for another loop every time he starts to calm down.

Late in the afternoon, the day starts to catch up with him, and he can see it hitting Bull, too. In the small confines of the room, there's only a limited amount of space to stretch out, and they end up sleeping back-to-back. The warmth of another body against his should be unpleasant in the sticky heat, but right now, the last thing Cullen wants is to be alone.

He wakes in the darkness, still with a warm weight against his back, but he knows by the width of the shoulders that it isn't Bull. The transition from mostly asleep to completely one-hundred-percent awake takes about two tenths of a second, and then Cullen just lies there, eyes wide and heart beating too fast. It's ridiculous, and he knows it, and that knowledge does absolutely nothing to calm his body back down.

Dorian sleeps on, oblivious, and eventually exhaustion does what willpower couldn't, pushing Cullen back into unconsciousness. The too-quick beat of his heart stays with him, though, feeding into the old nightmare until he's walking in circles, desperate to find someone, anyone, in the darkness.

This time when he wakes, Dorian is leaning over him without touching, murmuring his name in an urgent voice. It's almost as dark in the room as it was in his dream, but Cullen blinks a few times and can make out the shape looming over him.

"I'm okay," he says, interrupting Dorian mid-syllable. "Sorry."

There's a long pause before Dorian says lightly, "I thought we agreed you weren't going to be an ass and apologize for having nightmares."

"Oh, right," Cullen says weakly, glad this isn't going to become awkward but not sure what to say. And of course the silence then immediately becomes awkward.

"Here," Dorian says at last, and his shadow moves away--or as far away as he can get in this room--before coming back with something in his hands. Cullen takes it, wrapping his fingers carefully around...

"A banana?" he asks.

Dorian shrugs broadly enough Cullen can see it even in the dimness. "Hey, it was the best I could do. Figured it was safe for you to eat, and a little bit of a change. Didn't think to ask if you like them." His voice is chagrinned, and Cullen hastens to reassure him.

"No, it's fine! It's great. Thank you." Bananas aren't his favorite fruit, but after two months without fresh fruit of any kind, his mouth is already watering as he works on the peel. It's smaller than the bananas he's used to, and the flesh is softer, but he manages to split it open without making a complete mess.

The first bite is sweet and starchy, and he hasn't tasted anything so good in a long time. It's all he can do not to cram the entire thing into his mouth at once, but he makes himself ask, "Do you want some?"

"I had one earlier, but thanks. That one's all yours, Chief." Sunrise must be close, because it's starting to get lighter in the room, light enough for Dorian's smile to gleam. "As a special favor, I'll even refrain from making obscene jokes."

"Don't hurt yourself," Cullen mutters around another mouthful, and Dorian laughs. It might be getting lighter in here, but it's still dark enough to make that laugh a little too intimate, and Cullen focuses on his food rather than on the way Dorian's laugh makes him shiver pleasantly.

The food cravings are good for something, at least: one slightly over-ripe banana is enough to absorb all his attention for a little while. He eats every bit of it, sucking his fingers for any lingering traces until he looks up to find Dorian watching him with a studiously blank expression. "Ummm," Cullen says eloquently, then, "Sorry, I wasn't actually raised by wolves."

Dorian smirks. "If you say so."

"Thanks, by the way," Cullen says, hoping to gloss over his embarrassment. "I think I forgot to say that, but it was great. Thank you."

"The pleasure's all mine," Dorian says, and though his mouth is no longer smirking, his eyes still are. "I spent a substantial amount of time loitering near the stand, it seemed a shame not to buy something."

"You hear anything interesting while you were out?" Cullen asks nervously.

"Nothing," Dorian says. "And no news is probably good news, at least for now." He covers a yawn with the back of his hand, and squints at the largest of the sunbeams now cutting through the room. "If it's all the same to you, Chief, I'm going to get another couple hours of sleep. We've got a lot to do this afternoon."

The words are innocuous enough, but once Dorian lies down with his back to the room, Cullen can see the tension in his body. Sleeping is definitely not what Dorian's doing. Which means they're back to this, Dorian avoiding him as much as possible.

Cullen smothers a sigh and pulls out the cards to play a few hands of solitaire while he waits for whatever excitement the afternoon has in store.

###

Dorian gets a little sleep despite the combined effect of the two newest entries in his ever-growing collection of memories he'll be jerking off to later: Cullen pressed against him and Cullen sucking his own fingers. Jesus Christ, he'd thought there was only _one_ obscene way to eat a banana. The video loops endlessly through his head as he drifts in and out of consciousness, and while he won't object to that once they're home safe, it's damned distracting right now.

About the only way this could be worse would be if he had to actually make eye contact with Cullen while that video was playing, so, sleeping or not, he stays lying down until he hears footsteps in the hall outside. His hand goes instantly to his gun as he comes up on one knee, but it's just Bull, eyes scanning the room as he slides through the door.

His eyes come to rest on Dorian. "Time to roll," he says, and Dorian nods.

"All right, Chief," he says, and Cullen looks up from where he's snapping a rubber band around the deck of cards. "Here's the plan. There's a train leaving here in about an hour, and we're going to be on it."

"Great," Cullen mutters, clearly remembering the last train ride.

"We'll be boarding this one like normal people, so it's not so bad. The station's a couple miles from here, and the best way to get there is to walk. Everything else costs money, and would draw attention to us, but if you think the crowds will be too much, tell me now."

Because nothing will draw attention like Cullen freaking out in the middle of the street. Not that Dorian needs to say that aloud: by the slight twist to Cullen's mouth, he's already thinking it. "I can do it," Cullen says. "Yesterday it just caught me by surprise, that's all."

"All right," Dorian says. "If that changes when we get outside, just sit down somewhere and I'll know what that means. I'll be keeping an eye on you, so even if it looks like I didn't notice, assume that I did."

"And don't talk?" Cullen asks.

"Exactly. I don't care what happens or who talks to you, mum's the word. If you can look kind of slow, even better. Mentally, I mean, not physically. I'd try to pass you off as deaf if it weren't too easy to slip up."

Cullen blinks at him a second, then his face shifts slightly. It doesn't go slack, exactly, but the muscles relax and his eyes lose their sharpness. "This work?" he asks.

"That's creepy," Dorian says, because it is. "But effective." Because it's that, too. "Where'd you learn it?"

"I, ummm, was stationed in Stuttgart for a while, and got involved with the base theater company." Cullen looks embarrassed, though Dorian's not sure why. "We did _The Boys Next Door_ once."

"Saved by fucking community theater," Bull mutters, sounding amused.

"What about you?" Cullen asks him, clearly eager to change the subject. "You're kind of...noticeable."

Bull folds his arms across his chest and brings his eyebrows down into something that isn't quite a scowl, what Dorian likes to call his BAMF face. "Most people try to avoid me, so it's not much of an issue. Plus, I might not be up to Sparkler's standards, but I can actually speak a couple languages besides English."

"All right," Dorian says, slapping his palms together. "Now that everyone knows their lines, let's talk stage directions. We're leaving separately, but Bull and I will be there, even if you can't see us."

Cullen looks Bull pointedly up and down, as if to say, "How could I miss you?"

Dorian ignores him and runs through the rest of the directions, making Cullen repeat them back to him until he's satisfied. "Good enough. I'm going first, then you, and Bull will follow." He shoulders his pack and adds, "Whatever happens, don't talk and don't look around for us. Just keep walking."

Cullen snaps off a crisp salute only somewhat ruined by his accompanying eye roll. Standing in the open door, Dorian returns it, equally snappy and with a smirk instead of an eye roll.

The smirk is gone by the time he hits the street, his face set in the vaguely bored look of someone who has nowhere to be and no set time to be there. He ambles to the nearest street corner and lounges there, "smoking" a cigarette until he sees Cullen emerge blinking into the sunlight.

Dorian keeps his body relaxed and his attention spread out, even as he waits to see if Cullen will panic again. There's a half second where he thinks it's going to happen, then Cullen turns in the correct direction and begins his own slow amble up the street. He doesn't walk fast, but he doesn't stop, and--thank Christ--he doesn't look around for Dorian.

In the crowded street, it's not hard to shadow him without being obvious, and no one seems to pay him any mind. The entire walk to the train station is uneventful, in fact, which makes Dorian more nervous rather than less. Something has to go wrong sooner or later; nothing has gone right on this op, so why should it start now?

Still, the train ride is as boring as the walk. Cullen pretends to sleep--or at least, Dorian hopes he's pretending--and Bull reads a newspaper at the far end of the car. Slouched in his seat a few rows back from Cullen, Dorian watches the other passengers without being obvious, but no one appears overly interested in any of them. Bull gets more than his share of sidelong glances, but then, Bull usually does.

The train platform where they disembark is equally sedate, and the walk to the pier completely uneventful. Dorian scans the area constantly, or as constantly as he can without rubber-necking, tension mounting higher the farther they go without anything happening. Even once they're walking down the pier toward the fishing boat, the skin on the back of Dorian's neck itches.

That Bull isn't worried is only a small consolation. While he trusts Bull completely, his hindbrain isn't yet ready to be convinced that they've actually managed to pull this off. And the prospect of a day on a fishing boat isn't making him any happier.

Still, he pulls out a cheerful smile for the three-man crew, chatting with them as he hands over the agreed upon price. As they start making ready, Bull slides easily into his place in the conversation, and Dorian can retreat to the hold to curl up and anticipate his imminent misery in peace.

Or not quite in peace, because Cullen joins him once the boat has cast off. If there was anywhere else on this ship that wouldn't leave him underfoot, Dorian would send him away again, but this is really it. The only reason Bull isn't down here with them is because he's likely already been drawn into mending nets or some such thing as he makes friends and does his best to ensure that the crew thinks of them fondly, should anyone come asking questions.

Not that it will be an issue, soon enough. Just like whatever he thinks about Cullen won't be an issue, three days from now. His stomach twists at the thought, but he tells himself it's the seasickness. Christ, he _hates_ boats.

Cullen's hand on his shoulder is a surprise, and he rolls over too quickly, making Cullen jerk back in surprise.

"What?" he asks, made snappish by the nausea that's already starting, on top of the unused adrenaline still zipping through him

"You okay?" Cullen asks.

"I hate boats," he says, and he knows he sounds sulky. Trying to act like an adult, he pushes himself upright and tries to smile. "What happened to those cards?"

"These cards?" Cullen asks, and Dorian looks at him directly for the first time. There's not enough room down here, and sitting cross-legged puts them knee-to-knee. Which absolutely should not be a turn-on, but the only reason it isn't is the queasiness rocking his stomach.

"These cards?" Cullen asks again, waving them in the air, and Dorian realizes he's just been sitting there staring.

He clears his throat and looks away. "Yes, those cards. Any preference on what we play? Not War, please."

In the middle of unwrapping the rubber band, Cullen pauses for a second. "I think I can handle that," he says, and finishes what he was doing. He shuffles expertly, riffling the cards and then making a nearly perfect bridge before doing it all over again. Dorian finds himself mesmerized by Cullen's hands, by the easy movements of his fingers as-

 _Stop,_ he orders himself. _Stop now._

But he can't stop, and he proceeds to lose several hands of blackjack very quickly and very badly. "You sure you're feeling okay?" Cullen asks with some concern, after the fifth time Dorian's cards end up totaling over thirty. "I mean, given the circumstances."

"Given the circumstances, I'm just lovely," Dorian says, with more sarcasm than he really intends.

Cullen stops mid-shuffle, the cards frozen halfway through a bridge. "We don't have to keep playing."

He can keep playing cards and torture himself by watching Cullen's hands, or he can say no and lie there torturing himself by listening to Cullen breathe. Decisions, decisions.

"Sorry," he says at last. "Did I mention that I really hate boats?"

Cullen makes a noncommittal noise. "Do you want some water or something?"

Dorian's stomach wants to decline, but his mouth is dry as hell. "If I don't have to get up for it."

"Fair enough," Cullen says, and climbs to his feet. He's gone before Dorian can ask what he's doing, but he comes back soon enough with a cup of water.

"I didn't mean for you to fetch it for me," Dorian says with exasperation as he takes the cup. "I thought you meant you had some left in the canteen."

"You're welcome," Cullen says with a straight face.

"Oh, sit down and deal the cards," Dorian snaps. He doesn't actually want to snap at Cullen, but he's miserable and Cullen is partly responsible for it, even if not deliberately.

There's a long silence, which Dorian refuses to break with an apology, even though he knows he's being childish.

"I can leave you alone if you want," Cullen says at last.

Dorian takes a sip of water to wash down his irritation. "No," he says, when he knows he can say it without snarling. "Sorry." He takes another sip before adding, "And thank you."

"You're welcome," Cullen says, and sits down to deal the cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that totally was a Warcraft II reference. ~~And no, I've never taken Latin, so I don't have any idea if "caveat miles" is grammatically correct. If anybody actually knows the right way to say "Soldier beware!" in Latin, please share.~~ Thank you to boudicathebrave for Latin help!


	15. What Your Eyes Can Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm not paralyzed  
> But, I seem to be struck by you  
> I wanna make you move  
> Because you're standing still  
> If your body matches  
> What your eyes can do  
> You'll probably move right through  
> Me on my way to you
> 
> Finger Eleven, "Paralyzer"  
> *****************************************************************  
> So this is what happens when I write out of order: when I catch up with myself, y'all get two chapters at once! Most of this chapter has been written for a long time (the second half is one of the very first scenes I wrote in this story). Of course, this also might be the chapter where I annoy everyone, both the people who want the slow burn to end and the people who want it to keep going. Sorry!

They don't talk much for the rest of the day, but Dorian at least manages to keep his temper under control until it's late enough that he can plausibly claim exhaustion. Sleep does help--a little--and he wakes up in at least a marginally less foul mood.

Marginally. Most of a day on board a boat isn't his idea of fun, and he knows he's not the most cheerful of travelling companions right now. Cullen mostly ignores his complaining, making noises of vague agreement whenever Dorian looks in his direction until Dorian gets sick of himself.

"How do you stand me?" he asks at last.

"I'm sitting down," Cullen answers, without cracking a smile.

"Bull would have chucked me overboard by now."

"He's stronger than me," Cullen says, and Dorian laughs.

"You are something else, Chief."

Cullen's hands slip on the bridge, sending a few cards shooting in Dorian's direction. "So you keep telling me," he says, not looking up.

Dorian makes a face. "Sorry I've been such a dick," he offers.

"You feel like shit," Cullen says. "I get that."

"And you've been feeling like shit for the last two months," Dorian says. "But you're not bitching at me."

"I'm just a better person, I guess," Cullen says, and this time he does smile.

Unfortunately, he looks up as he does it. Bent forward a little to shuffle the cards, he's definitely in kissing range, and Dorian leans back as casually as he can. _Bad idea, Pavus,_ he reminds himself.

By the time they land in Greece, Dorian is more than ready to get off this boat and put a little distance between himself and Cullen. Except that thinking about that reminds him that he's about to have an ocean and most of a continent between them, and that's a little depressing.

The evening's accommodations make a mockery of his thoughts: a shitty hotel room with thin carpet and stained walls, and only two beds. The room itself is barely big enough for three people to move around without tripping over each other, and it doesn't even have a bathroom he can lock himself in. It also doesn't have air conditioning, and Dorian can feel sweat beading on his skin within minutes.

"I'll take the floor," Dorian volunteers, knowing it will be the coolest place in the room. "You old guys can have the beds."

Bull presses a hand to the small of his back and bends over like he's walking with a cane. "Go take a shower, Sparkler. Us old guys will wait for you."

The shared bathroom is only moderately disgusting, and the water actually approaches a livable temperature. Clean again and without a boat rocking under him, he's almost whistling by the time he gets back to the room. Even the ten minutes he's stuck in the tiny room with Cullen while Bull is in the shower aren't completely terrible, and when Bull returns, the need for food and new clothes gives Dorian a ready excuse to leave again.

Not that it takes him all that long to find both, as well as a couple magazines to keep from going completely stir crazy, but the search kills a little time, and once they've eaten, he can take the first shift on watch. Except that Bull thwarts him on that, following him out into the hallway as he tries to slip off with his meal only half eaten.

"Go to bed," Bull says, without preamble, pointing back toward the room.

Dorian ignores him and keeps walking down the hall, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt. Everything he's wearing is a little too big for him, but he didn't have a lot of time to be picky.

"Dorian," Bull says, and that stops him dead, because Bull almost never calls him by name. "Go to bed."

"I'll just keep an eye on things for a couple hours," Dorian says, without turning around.

"We've made it this far," Bull says, coming up behind him to lay a hand on his shoulder. "You can relax now. I'll keep an eye out, and you can get some sleep. I know you didn't sleep for shit last night on the boat, and if something does manage to bite us in the ass between here and Athens, you need to be able to deal with it."

If there's one thing Dorian's learned in the last decade, it's when to abandon an argument with Bull. "Fine," he says, taking the room key Bull holds out to him. It's an actual key, rather than a plastic card. "I hate you, I just want to say."

Bull chuckles. "I know. Now get some sleep."

Dorian drags himself back up the hallway and stops outside the door, staring at it like he's in a horror movie and the music has just changed to a minor chord.

"It works better if you use the key," Bull calls, and Dorian flips him off.

The lock is as ancient as the key, and Dorian has to jiggle it a little to get the door open. He looks up from jiggling the key out of the lock to find himself staring at Cullen's back. Cullen's naked back. A whole lot of Cullen's naked back, as his pants are riding low on his hips, low enough to reveal the dip where back becomes ass, and Dorian can easily imagine sliding Cullen's pants down the rest of the way, licking at the bead of sweat that's currently tracing a path down his spine. He wants to touch him, kiss him, suck him soft and slow, fuck him hard and fast...

He just _wants_ , a hot flush through his entire body that leaves his mouth dry and his cock hard.

For maximum embarrassment, Cullen of course chooses that exact second to turn around, and Dorian looks away, slamming the door with too much force. He can't do anything about his hard-on, but maybe if he moves quickly enough, Cullen won't see it.

"Bull's keeping watch," he says, hoping the words will provide an additional distraction. As he talks, he edges past Cullen sideways, careful to turn his back as he does it. That doesn't stop the smell of soap and warm, damp skin from hitting his nose. He resists the urge to inhale deeply and keeps going until he reaches the blanket spread out on the floor between the two beds. His hands don't shake as he sets his gun on the ground at his side, and that's something.

At least sitting down he can put a magazine over his lap. He's not actually reading it, but it's turned right side up and it's in a language he knows. Beyond that, it's just a prop to put some distance between himself and Cullen, and he couldn't say whether the page in front of him is full of high-society gossip, or musings on the current state of the economy, or some strange combination of the two. Dorian doesn't know and doesn't care, so long as Cullen doesn't get too close.

###

At the sound of the door opening, Cullen gets a jolt of adrenaline, smaller than usual but more than enough to make his hands shake. A quick glance shows him it's only Dorian, though, looking down at his key and frowning as it sticks in the lock. Before Dorian can look up and see that Cullen just got scared by somebody opening a fucking door, he turns away.

When the jingling of the key in the lock stops but the door doesn't close immediately, Cullen braces himself and turns again, hoping his face doesn't reveal anything. Then that fear flies right out the window, because Dorian is watching him, and his heart kicks back into high gear for an entirely different reason. Dorian may flirt with everyone, but the expression on his face now is one Cullen's never seen before, hungry and almost desperate.

It's gone in a blink, and Dorian's eyes skate away from his. "Bull's keeping watch," he says as he sidles by, and if Cullen hadn't seen his face before he shuttered it, his tone would give nothing away.

But Cullen did see, and while he's completely baffled by the cause of that look, he still knows what he saw. He finds his shirt--discarded in the heat of the room--and picks it up, gathering it together like he's going to put it on without actually sliding it over his head. What in Christ's name does Dorian see? Scruffy and half-starved isn't a good look for anyone, after all.

A familiar buzz starts deep in his chest, low and distant but unmistakably there. Does the why matter?

He drops his shirt back on the bed and kneels by Dorian, who's pretending to be engrossed in one of the magazines he bought. As the page he's staring at has a naked woman sprawled across most of it, Cullen's very sure Dorian isn't actually paying attention.

Any lingering doubts about what he saw, any last fears that he misunderstood, are silenced when Dorian doesn't look up at him. Cullen pauses there, trying to decide how to approach this; he'd been hoping that Dorian would take over from here, not keep staring at the magazine like it has the answers to life, the universe, and everything. Cullen's seduction technique has never been anything that would win him any prizes, a lack he's never felt more keenly than right now.

In the end, he goes for the direct approach and just takes the magazine away from Dorian, who makes no effort to hold on to it. Cullen sets it out of the way, then moves Dorian's gun so that it's in reach but less likely to get kicked by accident. Dorian still isn't looking at him, his gaze now fixed on his hands, curled loosely in his lap.

Not until Cullen takes his face in both hands and forces his head up does Dorian meet his eyes. That same look is there, and there's a breathless moment where all they do is stare, until Cullen leans forward to press their lips together.

Dorian surges up, mouth already opening, hands grabbing for whatever he can reach, which turns out to be Cullen's neck and the waistband of his pants. His grip is tight, as if he thinks Cullen might be stupid enough to change his mind, and he deepens the kiss, tongue pressing insistently into Cullen's mouth. Cullen lets him in, shivering at the contact, then shivering again, harder, when Dorian groans into the kiss.

"Jesus," Dorian gasps, twisting away to press his mouth to Cullen's neck under his ear. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're going to kill me."

"Not right now," Cullen says, smiling as he turns his head to give Dorian better access.

"Yes right now." Dorian bites gently, then licks the skin in the same place. "I've been thinking about this, this right here, tasting your neck, for too damn long." His voice is low and rough.

"I think my fantasies weren't so PG," Cullen says, tugging Dorian's shirt out of his pants so he can finally, finally touch skin. He strokes across Dorian's stomach and up his chest, the shirt riding on his wrists until Dorian growls in frustration and pulls away long enough to strip it off.

"I'll show you PG," Dorian says with a grin, leaning into Cullen so they're chest to chest, mouths just short of touching.

Cullen closes that last distance to kiss him again, teasing his thumbs across Dorian's nipples until he arches forward, driving his hard cock into Cullen's hip. Cullen's own body is not nearly so interested: the heat he felt before remains distant, but since he hadn't expected otherwise, he's not disappointed. It occurs to him, though, that Dorian may take it the wrong way, and discussing it will be a complete buzz-kill for both of them.

All he wants is to forget everything outside this room, everything before and after the moment he's in right now. Turning Dorian into a hot mess is exactly the sort of thing guaranteed to keep his mind occupied, and the heat under his skin feels amazing, even if he knows it's not enough to take him all the way to orgasm.

So when the kiss ends, Cullen turns them so Dorian's back is pressed to his chest, one of his knees between Dorian's. The heart under his hand is beating too fast, and he kisses the side of Dorian's neck, right by his shoulder.

"Jesus," Dorian mutters again.

"Cullen. My name is Cullen."

"Oh right! I-ah!"

Cullen smiles against Dorian's shoulder and rubs his cock through his pants a second time. "You were saying?"

"Something." Dorian presses his hips forward. "I was saying something, but I find I've gotten a little distr-" He hisses out a breath as Cullen squeezes gently. "It's not nice to tease."

"Then I must not be very nice." He kisses Dorian's ear and whispers, "Because I intend to tease you until you beg me to let you come." It's not the kind of thing he normally says, and he can feel the blush across his cheeks, but he can't be too embarrassed with Dorian groaning against him.

Cullen may not be very adept at getting men into bed, but it's been a long time since he had any of the same uncertainty once he gets them naked. Or half naked, as the case may be. It's actually easier without his own body's demands beating at his awareness, because now he's free to focus on the small sounds coming from Dorian's throat and the involuntary movements of his body.

He teases Dorian through his pants while his tongue traces the edge of the tattoo, biting the point of Dorian's shoulder right over one of the snake's fangs. Dorian is begging in earnest, voice hoarse, before Cullen opens his fly and slides his hand inside, beneath his underwear, to curl loose fingers around his cock. It's hot and hard, already damp at the tip, and when Cullen squeezes, Dorian bucks forward into his fist.

An extra ten years of experience is handy, and Cullen puts it all to work for him, drawing things out as long as he can. Teasing is definitely the right word for it, and Dorian is swearing at him in at least three languages by the time Cullen begins to stroke him in earnest, fist pumping faster and faster as Dorian's breathing turns into a faint, desperate whine.

Dorian twists unexpectedly and grabs Cullen's head with one hand, pulling him in for a kiss that actually stirs Cullen's cock. Even with Dorian's ass grinding against him, he's only half hard, but he's amazed it's gotten that far.

"Jesus," Dorian mumbles into his mouth, then his voice cracks as he groans Cullen's name and comes, body jerking, cock pulsing and fingers tight in Cullen's hair. His breath against Cullen's face may be one of the sexiest things Cullen's felt. A shame he's in no condition to enjoy it the way it deserves, but he can save the memory for another time.

When Dorian's eyes open, Cullen kisses him lightly and says, "Do you always cuss people out during sex?"

"Only when it's really good," Dorian says, straightening up and pulling far enough away that he can turn to face Cullen.

Cullen recognizes the words for the deliberate ego-stroke that they are, but he smiles anyway. "You've got a foul mouth."

There's a gleam in Dorian's eyes that warns Cullen what's coming before Dorian says, "You'll just have to put something in it, then, won't you?"

Cullen scrambles for a response. Even if his body was actually responding, he knows Dorian hasn't thought that one all the way through. There's no way Cullen is letting anyone suck his dick until he knows whether-

 _Not thinking about that right now,_ he tells himself. Hell, it's not something he expected to ever have to think about. But Dorian's still waiting for an answer, eyebrows raised. "Maybe later?" he tries, knowing it's not going to be that easy.

"Or now," Dorian says, "unless there's something else you'd like better."

His hand cups the front of Cullen's pants, and he frowns in confusion.

"Yeah, about that," Cullen says, feeling awkward. He starts to rub the back of his neck and only remembers at the last second how bad an idea that would be.

Understanding--or misunderstanding--breaks across Dorian's face, and he grins. "I always did like a challenge." He's got Cullen's pants open too fast for Cullen to protest, but Cullen manages to catch his wrist before he goes any farther.

"I'm okay," Cullen says, trying to find the right tone and expression to convey his meaning. He doesn't want Dorian to take his lack of reaction personally, but he also doesn't want this to become a competition between Dorian's mouth and Cullen's dick, to see which gives up first. "I wanted to touch you, but I'm still not really back at a hundred percent."

"I've been told my mouth could raise the dead." He's still grinning, still convinced Cullen's being coy for some unknown reason.

"I don't doubt that for a second," Cullen says. He lets go of Dorian's wrist so he can comb the fingers of his clean hand through Dorian's hair. "And maybe some other time, you can prove it to me, but right now, it's just not worth the effort." Which sounds horrible as soon as he's said it. Shit. "Not that you're not worth the effort! Or that having sex with you would be an effort." He stops before he digs the hole any deeper.

Dorian is frowning at him in confusion, though at least he doesn't look hurt or pissed. "Just tell me what parts felt good, and we'll go back to there."

"It all felt good," Cullen says gently.

"But at first-"

Cullen finally realizes what the miscommunication is and cuts Dorian off with a shake of his head. "I went into it knowing I wasn't going to be able to get it up." He laughs a little. "Hell, you got more of a reaction than I would have thought possible."

Dorian now looks completely baffled, as if Cullen's some kind of alien who just pulled off his human suit. "So you just gave me the best handjob of my life, and you don't want anything?"

"Well, my ego's certainly appreciating the commentary." Cullen tries to keep the conversation light, but he's starting to develop some unflattering theories about the kind of man Dorian normally sleeps with. "Other than that? Touching you felt good, even if it didn't get me off."

"There's got to be something," Dorian says, and his voice is rising, as if Cullen's somehow challenged one of the fundamental pillars of his world.

"I guess there's one thing," Cullen says, grabbing his shirt to wipe off his hand before it dries into a sticky mess.

"Tell me," Dorian says, and he's calm again, his worldview safe.

Cullen coughs into his hand, feeling a little embarrassed. "Would you, ah, just lie down with me for a little while?" He wants to touch Dorian some more, even if nothing else happens.

Dorian is giving him that smacked-in-the-head-with-a-two-by-four look again. "And...?"

"That's it. Just lie down." He rolls his eyes at both of them and forces himself to say, "Look, I know we're men and so it's all supposed to be fucking and not talking about _feelings_ , but that's really all I want: you and me, horizontal, no sex."

"You want to...cuddle?" There's no contempt or hostility, just the kind of hesitation Cullen would expect from someone who's learned a new word and still isn't sure he's using it right.

"It's not that big a deal," Cullen says, now annoyed enough that he's not sure he actually wants it anymore. "If you don't want to, I'm not going to get bent about it."

Dorian closes his eyes and draws a deep breath through his nose, letting it trickle out between his lips before he opens his eyes again. A smile tugs up one corner of his mouth, and he puts a hand on the back of Cullen's neck. "I asked what I could do for you," he says, and the teasing note is back in his voice, "not what _else_ you could do for me."

By the time Cullen's parsed that, Dorian already has them halfway to horizontal. They lie on their sides facing each other, Dorian's legs twisted together with his and Dorian's face pressed into his chest. Dorian's arm around his ribs is a little too tight for a casual, I'm-just-humoring-you cuddle, but Cullen says nothing, spreading his own hand flat against the small of Dorian's back. It's really too warm to be this close to another person, and Cullen doesn't care.

"Thank you," he says quietly, because the feel of Dorian's skin against his is exactly what he wanted.

Dorian laughs and presses a kiss to his chest. "I'm reasonably sure you've got that backwards, but you're welcome."

"You're okay like this?" Cullen asks, not sure why he can't just leave it alone.

"Still reeling a bit, but otherwise, more than okay."

"Reeling?"

Dorian leans away so he can see Cullen's face, searching it for who-knows-what. "Reeling," he says at last and burrows his face back into Cullen's chest. "If you'd ask me an hour ago, I would have bet money that you weren't even remotely interested in me."

Cullen almost says, "Has anyone ever looked at you and _not_ been interested?" He's pretty sure Dorian is his own axis on the Kinsey scale, rendering straight or gay irrelevant. He doesn't say that, though, because it's only the surface truth and he wants to give Dorian a better answer than that. The problem is that the deeper truths are a little too deep, when they've known each other for so little time. He's very aware of the difference in their ages, and how much things between them will change when he's not the only willing male for miles in any direction.

Cullen gives up trying to sort out the muddle in his head. "Why did you think I wasn't interested? I felt like I was staring at you all the time."

"I kept flirting with you, and you never responded to any of it. The best I could get was a laugh, and I never could tell if you were laughing with me or at me. And then you started avoiding me."

"Because I thought _I_ was making _you_ uncomfortable. And honestly?" Cullen brings his hand up to trace the lines of Dorian's tattoo, amazed that he gets to do something so simple. So what if it's only for now? He'll enjoy it for as long as he's got it. "I figured you were flirting with me because you flirt with everyone."

"Not _everyone_ ," Dorian protests. "I have standards."

"Glad to hear it," Cullen says, not bothering to hide his skepticism, then grunts when Dorian drives one knuckle into his ribs.

"Okay, yes, fine. I flirt with everyone." He toys idly with a patch of hair on Cullen's chest. "That doesn't mean I don't have standards when it comes to taking it any farther."

"Think about it," he says patiently. "I met you in a fucking third-world prison, when you were saving my ass. The only people I've seen you interact with are me, Bull, and the guards in the prison. Well, and Varric. Doesn't give me a lot to go on, to know what's normal for you."

"Well, let me help you out. Not this," Dorian says, brushing the backs of his fingers low across Cullen's stomach, just under the waistband of his pants.

Cullen bends his neck to kiss the top of Dorian's head, lingering to draw a deep breath with his nose in Dorian's hair. God, he could get used to this. "How could I know that?" he says, letting his head fall back to a more natural position. "Hell, you spent the last three weeks trying to be anywhere I wasn't."

Under his hand, Dorian's shoulder starts to shake in silent laughter. "Christ," he gasps. "We're a pair, aren't we? Bull's probably been laughing his ass off. I was avoiding you because you were a distraction, and I needed to focus on the op. And it got to the point where I couldn't focus if you were around, unless someone was shooting at us."

"I thought maybe I'd made you uncomfortable," Cullen admits. "The nightmare, or my stupid rambling after."

Dorian shifts to look at him again, and he's frowning. "It wasn't stupid," he says, with unexpected intensity. "Not even a little bit." He brushes his lips against Cullen's, then does it again, light touches that aren't quite kisses. "But can we hold the cuddling for two minutes?"

"Sure?" Cullen says, and Dorian rolls away. Their skin, sticky with sweat, peels apart, and Cullen tries not to wrinkle his nose. He wants to curl up around Dorian, but it really is too warm in here for it.

Dorian's over doing something with his t-shirt and a bottle of water, something Cullen can't figure out until he comes back and lies down again, draping the damp shirt over both of them. "Old fashioned air-conditioner," Dorian says, sliding his arm under the t-shirt to wrap it around Cullen again. "I'm surprised you didn't know about it, oh Boy Scout."

"We had new fashioned air conditioning," Cullen says as the evaporating water begins to cool his skin. They're quiet for a little while, then Cullen can't resist asking, "So I'm a distraction?"

"Christ yes," Dorian mutters. "Now stop fishing for compliments."

Cullen chuckles and strokes his fingers up Dorian's back. He doesn't ask any more questions, afraid of breaking this by poking at it too hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is _not_ the chapter that made me change the rating to E. Just in case anyone was wondering. :)
> 
> I also can't take credit for one of my favorite lines in here: see [this comment](http://www.reddit.com/r/dragonage/comments/2nd5i6/so_how_many_other_straight_males_romanced_dorian/cmcwg6e) on [this thread](http://www.reddit.com/r/dragonage/comments/2nd5i6/so_how_many_other_straight_males_romanced_dorian/) for the mention of Dorian getting his own axis on the Kinsey scale. Actually, the whole thread is pretty funny, if you feel like reading through it.


	16. Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, baby, don't you know I'm just human  
> Have thoughts like any other man  
> Sometimes I find myself alone regretting  
> Some foolish thing, some foolish thing I've done
> 
> 'Cause I'm just a soul whose intentions are good  
> Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood
> 
> Bennie Benjamin, Gloria Caldwell, and Sol Marcus; "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood"

The problem is that Bull is too damned smart.

He comes back to the room in the early hours of the morning, and his sharp eyes scan both of them. Dorian is sitting on the floor reading--actually reading, not just pretending to read--and Cullen is stretched out on his own bed half asleep, and it's been hours, so the room doesn't even smell like sex anymore, and really, there's no _possible_ way Bull could know.

But he looks at them, then shakes his head slowly, and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling, and sighs.

"Guten Morgen," Dorian says, which is such a non sequitur that Cullen turns onto his side to blink at him sleepily.

Okay, maybe it didn't take blinding powers of deduction, now that Cullen can see the smirk on Dorian's face. "Aren't you supposed to be a spy or some shit?" he asks, even as he blushes. "Because you suck at keeping secrets."

Dorian transfers the smirk to him. "What happens to my dick isn't usually considered a matter of national security. Secrecy optional."

"Except, you know, when we're on an op," Bull says.

The smirk dims, but it's more like Dorian is suppressing it than that he's actually sorry. "You're the one who told me to relax last night."

"Yeah, well, it's my turn to relax now," Bull says, giving Dorian a smirk of his own. "So get going. I promise not to creep on your boy while you're gone."

Which _of course_ Dorian takes as some kind of challenge, because he tosses the magazine aside and rises as far as his knees. The room is small enough that he only has to turn to be right beside Cullen's bed, and all Cullen's sleepiness vanishes as Dorian props his forearms on the edge of the mattress and leans forward to kiss him.

Except he stops, lips a few millimeters shy of Cullen's, and just stays there, smirking again. "See you in a couple hours, Chief," he murmurs, which, as sweet nothings go, isn't the best Cullen's ever heard. Or maybe it is, because his pulse has picked up again, and he deliberately forgets about Bull long enough to bring his mouth up to Dorian's.

Dorian laughs and kisses him back, once, quickly, then hops to his feet and looks at Bull. "Two hours?"

"Works for me." Bull is still smirking. "And aren't you supposed to be the smart one here?"

"Of course I am," Dorian says with a modest smile.

"Because revving his engine right before you leave is real smart?"

Cullen blushes again, Dorian laughs again, and Bull rolls his eyes. Again.

###

For Dorian, the embassy in Athens is almost anti-climactic after everything else they've been through. Not that they get to see much of it: they've barely arrived before they're whisked away, and Landstuhl is _definitely_ not that interesting, not after the dozens of visits Dorian's already paid to the place in the last ten years. At least neither he nor Bull is injured this time, and Cullen's injuries are all superficial. Not that the medical staff listen to any of them on the subject, though Dorian and Bull are released soon enough.

Tracking Cullen down takes some time, not to mention a judicious application of Bull's ability to sweet-talk information out of nearly anyone, and Dorian is deeply annoyed by the time they find him. One look at Cullen, though, and all his annoyance vanishes, replaced by concern. He's hooked up to a dozen different machines, and his face is pale and lined.

"You all right?" Dorian asks, perching in the visitor's chair while Bull leans on the back.

Cullen's eyes snap open, and he smiles weakly at them. "Mostly. Just got off the phone with my mother."

Ah. "Let me guess. Lots of crying?"

"You have no idea," Cullen mutters. "And I don't blame her, but _fuck_ I'm tired."

Dorian jumps back to his feet, feeling inexplicably awkward. "Then we'll let you get some sleep. Just wanted to make sure you were all right." Which is stupid. Of course Cullen's all right: they're in the middle of a fucking hospital, full of staff who are capable of doing a lot more for him than feeding him bananas. Dorian and Bull did their part, and now it's time to let other professionals do what they do best.

"You're leaving?" Cullen says. The alarm in his voice has Dorian reclaiming his seat as quickly as he abandoned it a second ago, while he reminds himself that relief is not actually an appropriate reaction here.

"If you're up for company, we can stick around," Bull says, and Dorian barely manages not to turn and beam at him gratefully. "Who knows where all our shit is right now, but I can probably scrounge up some cards if you give me a few minutes."

"That sounds great," Cullen says with obvious relief.

"Be right back," Bull says.

He's been gone about ten seconds before Dorian starts to feel awkward again. Cullen looks so tired, and Dorian wants to touch him, but he doesn't know if that would be welcome. Instead of trying, he asks, "So what's with all the machines? You were almost back to normal food this morning."

Cullen makes a face. "They wouldn't believe me. Said they needed to run a bunch of tests, and then we can, quote, 'discuss' my diet."

"That's doctors for you. You need to tell them to fuck off, or they'll just treat you like a fucking lab rat."

"Yeah, well, they're just doing their jobs," Cullen says, and his gaze slips away from Dorian's. "The tests aren't that bad, and it doesn't hurt anything for them to be sure."

"Sure of what?"

"Anything," Cullen says wryly.

Something's not right, but Dorian can't put his finger on what, so he sticks to the hospital equivalent of discussing the weather. "At least they'll give you something a little tastier than the sludge, right?"

"Have you ever had a fortified broth?" Cullen asks, amused.

"No," Dorian says. "Should I be grateful?"

"I'd rather have the sludge," Cullen says.

"Lovely," Dorian murmurs, and makes a note to smuggle in some decent food. "They give you any idea how long they're going to keep you?"

"Do they ever?" Cullen asks. His head falls back against the pillow, eyes closing, and again Dorian is struck by the urge to touch him. If it were Bull lying in that bed, Dorian would know it was allowed: they've been together so long, they know each other's tics and triggers, the ways to offer comfort without smothering. And Bull isn't exactly touchy-feely, but he's much more physical than most people Dorian knows.

They've actually shared a hospital bed occasionally, to the considerable consternation of whatever nurse was on duty, because sometimes the only real comfort is in knowing there's another human being nearby. Words aren't much help against some of what they've seen and done, and while it freaked Dorian out the first time Bull hugged him, he's come to rely on that physical contact, even if it has cost both of them a few significant others over the years.

But this is Cullen, not Bull, and Dorian has no idea if he wants to be touched at all, much less by another man in what is essentially a public place. Fuck, he doesn't even know if Cullen's out to his family, and that realization is damned depressing, a reminder of how little they actually know about each other.

On top of the usual post-mission let-down, it's got Dorian slumped low in his chair by the time Bull comes back with a battered deck of cards. And Bull being Bull, he's guessed at least some of what's going through Dorian's mind, because he squeezes the back of Dorian's neck once, briefly, before he drags up another chair and starts shuffling.

They play for maybe an hour before a nurse kicks them out with the kind of implacable cheerfulness that allows no room for debate. Too tired to even try, Dorian lets Bull take charge of getting them to Ramstein and the temporary quarters they've been assigned there, where he falls into bed and sleeps for twelve hours.

A good night's rest leaves him feeling a lot more like himself, and one shower and shave later, the anxiety is but a distant memory. It doesn't hurt that when he walks back in to Cullen's hospital room in the early afternoon, Cullen looks him over and gives him a smile that's way more than friendly. Cullen's face, too, has recently been re-introduced to a razor, and Dorian's fingers itch to touch him for an entirely different reason than last night.

He restrains himself, but Cullen is apparently feeling no such need, because he reaches out to touch Dorian's cheek as soon as he's close enough. "Nice," he murmurs, running the back of his finger along Dorian's jaw.

"Glad you approve," Dorian says with a smirk, which changes to an exaggerated frown when Cullen tugs one side of his mustache. "Hey! Careful there, that's attached."

"I'd noticed," Cullen says. His fingers move back to twist through the hair at the nape of Dorian's neck, pulling his face close enough for a kiss that Dorian's only too happy to turn into something a lot deeper than the quick peck Cullen was trying for.

"Should I leave you two alone?" Bull asks from the door, and Cullen pushes Dorian away, laughing.

All in all, it's a much better day than yesterday.

###

Cullen gets sick of doctors, and Landstuhl, very quickly. By the end of the third day, about the only thing saving him from terminal boredom is the prospect of Bull and Dorian's visits, and even those can only fill so much time. They do their best, but Cullen still gets hours every day to stare at the ceiling, or at whatever terrible novel someone could find for him. At least he's starting to get back on a regular sleep cycle, and he can waste almost half of every day just drifting in and out of dreams.

And Bull and Dorian _do_ visit as much as they can, which turns out to be pretty often. Bull has an amazing knack for schmoozing nurses, which means that regular visiting hours don't seem to apply, and somehow no one notices whenever they smuggle real food in. They play a lot of cards, and in between games, Dorian reads to them from whatever magazine he can find, translating on the fly. Cullen's pretty sure his translations are sometimes deliberately inaccurate, but since they're always funny, he's not objecting.

It's almost two weeks before they put him on a plane back to the states, and Cullen is more than ready to be done with hospitals by then. Whether it's luck or further proof of Bull's ability to schmooze, Bull and Dorian are both with him, and even though Cullen knows they'll be going their own way soon enough, he's glad to stay with them a little longer.

It's after midnight when they land in Norfolk, and the city might as well be a ghost town. Hunger is starting to take up way too much space in Cullen's awareness, and he resigns himself to eating whatever he can scrounge from a vending machine, but he's only just tossed his bag onto the chair in his hotel room when someone raps on the door.

He opens it to find Bull and Dorian standing expectantly in the hallway. "C'mon, Chief," Bull says.

"C'mon where?" Cullen asks. "Nothing's open."

"Not nothing," Bull says with a grin.

Bull's "not nothing" turns out to be a Waffle House a few blocks over from the hotel, which he presents to Cullen with a Vanna White flourish when they turn the corner.

"You'd think I'd know better than to doubt you by now," Cullen says solemnly.

"How quickly they forget," Dorian says. He bows his head as if praying for about two seconds, then straightens and jogs a few steps forward. "Enough of that. I demand sodium and cholesterol immediately."

"We come through Norfolk a lot," Bull explains to Cullen as they trail behind Dorian. "And usually at weird hours."

"Hurry it up!" Dorian calls from the restaurant's doorway, bouncing up and down on his toes. "I could starve, waiting on the two of you." He blinks and gives Cullen a guilty look, then relaxes when Cullen only laughs.

Starvation is definitely not a concern. They order too much food and demolish all of it, along with a couple gallons of coffee, and Cullen mostly succeeds in not thinking too hard about eating. It's made easier by all the distractions, from Bull flirting shamelessly with the waitress to Dorian ordering his hash browns like he's been here a hundred times.

"Wouldn't have thought you'd ever seen the inside of a Waffle House," Cullen says as the second round of plates hit the table, plates full of food that Dorian ordered without once glancing at the menu.

"Bull converted me," Dorian says, and crams a forkful of fried potatoes into his mouth.

"Spreading the good news is an important part of any religion," Bull says seriously, then uses the flat of his butter knife to smack Dorian's hand, which is reaching for a piece of his pecan waffle.

"Hey!" Dorian protests, and while they battle it out, Cullen steals a quarter of the waffle for himself.

It goes downhill from there, and Cullen's sides hurt from laughing by the time dawn rolls around and they give up their booth to the first of the morning rush. The air outside is heavy and humid, but Cullen breathes as deeply as if it were a beautiful fall day.

Bull claps him on the back. "Less than twenty-four hours and you'll be home, Chief."

Home. God, that sounds good right now, even if his mother will fuss like he's a kid with the flu. Four years old or forty, there's nothing he can do to stop her, and he's mostly resigned to it. A small part of him is even sort of looking forward to it, at least for the first day or so.

"Home, sweet home," Dorian says, and Cullen suddenly remembers that Dorian and Bull won't be coming with him.

It's a stupid thing to have forgotten, but somehow he did. The not-quite-two-months he's known them feel a lot longer, and the resulting friendship like something a lot more permanent than it really is.

"Home," Cullen says without looking at either of them.

The walk back to their hotel is quiet, almost somber after the silliness at the restaurant. Hard to say if Bull and Dorian are also lost in thought or merely allowing Cullen a little peace, but no one speaks until they're standing in the hallway between their rooms.

Cullen opens his mouth to wish them good night or good morning or whatever the hell applies here, only to find the words sticking in his throat. It's not like this is the final goodbye--that's still ten or so hours off, when Cullen gets on the plane to finish his trip home--but it sure feels like it.

"There's room for three," Bull says, jerking his head toward the room he's sharing with Dorian, "if you don't mind fighting Sparkler for the covers all night."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Dorian says, and Cullen smiles reluctantly.

"You sure?" he asks, and Bull nods.

The room has two double beds and a shower, which Cullen, despite being the interloper, somehow gets first crack at. He tries to wash quickly, aware that Bull and Dorian are both waiting for their own turns, but his thoughts keep slowing him down.

Twenty-four hours. In twenty-four hours, he'll be home, and working to put the last two and a half months behind him. The question is, exactly how much of what's happened does he _want_ to leave behind? It would definitely be easiest to carve it all out, the good with the bad, and shove it to one side until it scabs and then scars. He's done that before, and he can do it again.

If he wants to.

Dorian is a pretty compelling reason to not want to, but is that really fair to either of them? Cullen can imagine the conversation now: "So, Dorian, I realize we'll be a couple thousand miles apart, and monogamy is probably a bad word to you--and while we're at it, how old _are_ you?--and oh, yeah, we've only known each other a couple months and we spent those months getting shot at on a regular basis, but hey, want to give a long-distance relationship a try? And oh by the way, my hindbrain has decided you're my security blanket, and I don't even know how I'm going to feel about you once I've got my shit together."

Yeah, that would be fun. Cullen would rather get shot at some more.

He rests his arms on the wall of the shower and his head on one forearm, letting the water pound against his back. Maybe he's not giving Dorian enough credit, and if that were all of it, he might let optimism win over realism and throw his heart out for Dorian to step on, intentionally or not.

But that's not all of it, and Cullen can't ignore the rest. He was in a relationship the last time he had to go through this, and it was a complete disaster. What should have been a source of strength and comfort instead became another obligation to meet, so that every time his recovery took one of those inevitable steps backward, he was failing someone other than just himself. "Don't ask, don't tell" had still been official army policy, and the secrecy it required certainly hadn't helped, but Cullen is honest enough with himself to know that the relationship imploded mostly because neither of them could handle the strain. He's ten years older this time around, but Dorian is probably exactly the same age now that Cullen was then.

Cullen heaves himself back upright and ducks his head under the water, wetting his hair down. At the end of all his reasons and excuses, it comes down to this: he can't handle the thought of being responsible for someone else's happiness right now. His family will be bad enough, but at least he can rely on his father to tell the rest of them to fuck off when necessary.

And really, it's pretty arrogant to assume that Dorian even wants more.

By the time he gets out of the shower, Cullen's only pretty sure he actually remembered to use soap, but he doesn't smell, and there are two other people waiting. He struggles back into his jeans, brand new denim stiff and clinging to his damp skin, and gives up the relative privacy of the bathroom to Bull.

Dorian is lying on one of the beds with his hands behind his head, but he sits up when Cullen appears. "That's a pretty serious face, Chief," he says, gently mocking. "And you didn't need to bother getting dressed on my account."

"Maybe it would be better if I went back to my room," Cullen blurts out. He feels awkward in too many ways, short of breath for all the wrong reasons, and Jesus fucking Christ, is he really going to have a panic attack over this? "Going to have to sleep by myself soon enough, might as well get used to it."

Dorian is studying him with the same look he directed at the other passengers on the train a few weeks ago: calm and distant, weighing threats and possibilities behind a mask of polite indifference. Now if only Cullen knew what Dorian considered a threat in this situation, he could-

No. He couldn't. He's made his decision, and he's not going to blow up another relationship. If he and Dorian can be friends after this, then that's the most he can expect. It's the most he'll let himself want.

"It's up to you," Dorian says at last, cautiously. "But Bull's right, there's room for three, and we don't mind. It's what friends are for, right?"

The emphasis on "friends" is so faint it's barely there, but Cullen gets the message loud and clear. Friends, nothing more. Friends with benefits for a little while, but still just friends. Which is what he wants, right?

Right.

"Right," Cullen says. "You want to throw me a pillow? I'll take the floor, since I'm crashing in your space."

Dorian snorts, completely himself and completely at ease. "Don't be an ass. I can share with Bull if you want a bed to yourself, but let's enjoy the mod-cons while we've got them."

"I don't mind sharing with you," Cullen says, because it's true, and he's weak. One more night. And Bull will be right there in the other bed, if his muted libido decides to unmute itself and prove that god does, in fact, have a sick sense of humor.

It's a terrible idea, and Cullen knows it. That knowledge doesn't stop him from peeling his jeans back off and crawling into the bed with Dorian

When Dorian gets up to take his turn in the shower, Cullen has to clench his fists to keep from grabbing for him. Further proof that he made the right decision in not pursuing anything deeper, and that he made the wrong decision getting into this bed. If he had any damn sense at all, he would get up and go sleep in his own room.

He stays put. One smart decision is about his limit for tonight.

###

Dorian stands under the water a long time, head bowed and hands hanging loose at his sides. What was he expecting, after all? One handjob--one _unreciprocated_ handjob--and a little cuddling isn't a relationship, not by a long shot, and it's not as if Cullen promised him anything, not even obliquely.

He ignores the memory of Cullen's fingers on his freshly-shaven cheek, the smile that accompanied the touch, because neither of them meant anything.

Obviously.

His fists clench and the muscles in his arms tense and he wants to punch the wall so, so badly, but he doesn't. About the only thing that could make this worse would be Bull and Cullen barging in to see what the noise was about. No matter how good it will feel to break something, the explanation later isn't worth it.

A deep breath in through his nose, slow enough not to inhale any of the water running down his face, and he forces himself to get a little perspective. He's alive and in one piece, and so are Bull and Cullen. Whatever fuck-ups extended the op from a few days to almost two months, he and Bull got the job done, and they're headed home. All of them. With all body parts still attached, and with a minimum of new scars.

Mission accomplished. Go team. Et cetera.

So why does he feel like they failed? Maybe his parents were right, that he's never going to-

He cuts off that train of "logic" before it can go any further. _Fuck you,_ he thinks at them and reaches for the soap.

As he's toweling off a few minutes later, he works to put the walls back up. Getting angry at Cullen is pointless, after all; Dorian can enjoy the few hours he has left, or he can sulk. Either way, Cullen will be out of his life within twelve hours, and Dorian needs to accept that and move on.

_This shouldn't be a surprise,_ Dorian reminds himself. _Guys like him don't want guys like you, not for anything permanent._

He comes to a decision and reaches for his phone. There are still a hundred accumulated texts to get through from the two months his phone sat in storage at Ramstein, but he skips all of them to send Rilienus one sentence: _Dinner tomorrow night?_

Dinner with Rilienus will involve more fucking than eating, and that's exactly what Dorian wants. Getting on with his life. Check.

He's slotting his toothbrush back into the holder when the phone buzzes: _Sure. Everything go OK?_

Rilienus knows what it means, that Dorian is texting again after two months of silence.

_Not a complete fuck-up_ , he sends back, and Rilienus will know what that means, too: success, no major scars, no debilitating injuries, because Cullen's rejection _doesn't count_.

Dorian's relationship with Rilienus is one-dimensional--when they're both single, they might spend every night together, and when one of them has a boyfriend, they hardly ever see each other--but it's a vast improvement over pretty much all of Dorian's prior relationships, and they understand each other perfectly within its narrow confines. Rilienus doesn't need to know him as well as Bull knows him, not for this.

Actually, spending time with someone who doesn't know him as well as Bull sounds like a really good plan right about now. Dorian checks himself in the mirror, tweaks his smile until it's right, and goes out to lie for a few more hours. If there's one thing he's good at, it's shameless flirting, and there's nothing like embarrassing someone to keep their attention focused elsewhere.

###

Cullen doesn't relax the entire time Dorian's in the bathroom, even as he mocks himself for it. _What's going to happen?_ he demands of his racing heart. _Slipping on the soap is the only danger he's in._

Unsurprisingly, his body ignores him until Dorian is back, smirking at him as he tosses his jeans over the arm of a chair. "Ready for lights-out, Chief?" Dorian asks, and combined with his expression, the words sound completely filthy.

"I know I am," Bull says, and he raises his head enough to give Dorian a pointed look. "Sleep sounds really good right now, and I'll kick you out if I have to. Me and the Chief will stay here, and you can go sleep across the hall."

Despite his words, Bull doesn't seem bothered when Dorian crawls into the bed beside Cullen, even when Dorian throws an arm over Cullen's chest and curls up tightly against him. Cullen's a little less comfortable with it, especially since Dorian's hand starts to creep downward the second the light goes out.

He pins Dorian's arm under his own, which results in a brief struggle that Cullen wins by rolling forward onto his stomach with Dorian's arm underneath him. The bed creaks as Dorian tries to free himself.

"Kindergarten rule," Bull says out of nowhere, and Dorian sighs, going limp against Cullen's back.

"The what?" Cullen asks, when no one explains.

In an annoying sing-song that makes him sound like an elementary-school teacher about to commit murder, Dorian says, "If you bring a treat, you have to bring enough to share with the class."

It takes Cullen a moment to figure out what that has to do with anything, and then his face flushes. He's still flailing for a response when Bull says, "Exactly. I hear so much as a gasp out of the Chief, I'm joining in."

"Maybe _he_ made a move on _me_."

"He didn't," Bull says with conviction. "He's a nice guy."

"I'm a nice guy!" Dorian protests.

"No, you're not, and you don't want to be. I know a few people crazy enough to blow the driver of a moving car, but you're the only one who's done it while there was another passenger in there with you."

"I offered to blow him, too," Dorian says, without a trace of embarrassment. "It's hardly my fault he declined."

Cullen's face is so hot he's amazed it's not glowing.

"Either way," Bull says, "if anything happens over there, I know who's gonna start it. So don't."

Dorian somehow manages to slither forward without making the sheets rustle and puts his mouth right against Cullen's ear, where he breathes, "He doesn't know you very well, does he?"

Cullen chokes on his own spit, and Bull says, "Last warning, Sparkler. If you don't want to suck my dick tonight, leave that nice man alone."

Dorian laughs (the bastard) and jerks his arm out from under Cullen. He doesn't move away, though. Instead, he drapes himself over Cullen like a cat, rubbing his face between Cullen's shoulder blades before settling with a contented sigh. While Cullen's glad their earlier conversation hasn't made things awkward, he's not sure this is exactly an improvement.

It's a while before he manages to fall asleep, his brain stuck on the Bel Ami channel for a good long time. Those images carry over into his dreams, and when he wakes, he's surprised to find his dick is more than half way to hard. His position spooned up against Dorian's back might have something to do with this unexpected state of affairs, seeing as his cock is currently nestled between the cheeks of Dorian's ass. A few layers of cloth are an inadequate chaperone.

Not that he quite knows what to do about it. Nice as it is, if Dorian wakes up, Cullen knows he's going to take it as a suggestion, and Cullen cringes at the thought of Dorian wasting an hour trying to get him off. This is something else he remembers from the last time he was recovering from starvation, except now he's also almost forty. It's not exactly a winning combination for sex.

Yeah, he really doesn't need the embarrassment. He can't quite bring himself to move away, though, and so he just lies there, wishing pointlessly that more was somehow possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the non-Americans among you who are curious, "don't ask, don't tell" was official policy for all branches of the U.S. military from the early 1990s (post-1992, since Clinton was president, but I can't remember specifically what year) through 2011, and it basically came down to "don't tell us you're gay, and we won't ask." You can imagine how well that worked in practice. Though to be fair, it was still an improvement over the previous policy, which was basically, "we think you're gay, here's your dishonorable discharge." I'm exaggerating for effect, but not as much as I wish I was.


	17. Homeward Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But all my words come back to me  
> In shades of mediocrity  
> Like emptiness in harmony  
> I need someone to comfort me  
> Homeward bound  
> I wish I was  
> Homeward bound
> 
> Paul Simon, "Homeward Bound"  
> *******************************
> 
> Alternate chapter title: In which Cullen and Dorian demonstrate the meaning of the phrase "mixed messages".
> 
> Also, trigger warning for a (very brief) discussion of a rape that didn't happen; in this story, nobody was and nobody will be, but that's a heavy enough topic I didn't want to spring it on anyone out of the blue. I went back and forth on whether I should put it in the tags, but...well...if y'all think it should go in the tags after reading the chapter, tell me and I will.

Dorian snaps awake when Bull begins to move in the other bed, but he keeps still, because the last thing he wants to do is wake up Cullen. Cullen, who's snuggled up against him, breathing lightly into his hair, arm curled protectively around him. It's been a really long time since Dorian woke up like this, and even longer since the position didn't make him feel smothered rather than lo-

Cared for. Appreciated. Both excellent ways to finish that sentence. Much better than other possibilities, especially after Cullen made it clear that friends was all they were.

Friendship may be all he's going to get, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy the feel of Cullen's breath on the back of his neck, at least for a little longer. He listens to the sound of Bull getting dressed and tries not to think too hard. It's working pretty well for him when Bull walks into his line of sight and points at his watch, then holds up three fingers. Three hours. Dorian nods, and Bull waves vaguely in the direction of his forehead, a salute only by general agreement, before he's gone.

Three hours. There are a lot of things Dorian could do with three hours, including go back to sleep, but it seems a shame to waste the time. If this is all he's getting, then he's going to make the most of it, so instead of getting up or letting himself fall asleep, he just lies there and enjoys Cullen's body against his. It's not even sexual; maybe a little sensual, but mostly comforting.

Or at least, it's not sexual until he shifts to take a little pressure off his hip and realizes that Cullen's dick is warm and hard against his ass. Not quite ready-to-fuck hard, but definitely interested.

That night in Greece, Dorian was too off balance to really pay attention, thrown by the combined effects of Cullen's handjob and Cullen's apparent lack of interest in reciprocation. That's something he has absolutely no experience with: he's never slept with anyone who didn't treat sex as a quid pro quo arrangement at best. By the time he'd gotten himself sorted out, it was too late to try anything before Bull returned. And then they'd been in Landstuhl, and hospitals just aren't sexy in Dorian's world.

Those two weeks did give him plenty of time to think, though, and he's pretty sure he knows what was going through Cullen's head that night. Most of the research Dorian read on starvation and re-feeding focused on the kinds of things that would matter out in the field, but a few of them made passing references to other side effects. Dorian filed the information away, because that's what he does with every fact he stumbles across regardless of immediate relevance, but he hadn't gone back and looked at that mental file until he'd had two weeks to cool his heels in Germany.

Cullen may not want more than friendship, but Dorian knows all about being friends with benefits. And wasn't Dorian just thinking about enjoying these last moments while he has them?

In his head, Bull's voice tells him exactly how terrible an idea this is. He's still working on ignoring that warning when Cullen's breathing changes, and Dorian knows he's awake. The arm flung over Dorian shifts slightly, becoming stiff and unnatural, making Dorian feel much the same. He waits for Cullen to say or do something, to rehash last night's conversation or spell it out in plain language or make some embarrassed apology.

Or anything except lie there, the stiffness in his body shouting, "I don't want to be here, but I'm too polite to say so."

The silence drags on until Dorian can't stand it anymore and rolls over to bring them face-to-face. Cullen looks wary, and a little worried, and Dorian doesn't want him to be either of those things. _Carpe the fucking diem,_ he tells himself, and decides he'll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.

More tentative than he's been in years, he puts a hand on the back of Cullen's neck and eases closer, sliding their legs together as he presses their lips together. He keeps the kiss gentle, tasting Cullen's mouth without the desperation from that night in Greece, stroking from Cullen's neck all the way down to the back of his thigh. Cullen leans into it, the warm slick touch of his tongue making Dorian sigh in contentment and pleasure.

He tries to lift Cullen's leg to wrap it around his waist, and Cullen pulls away. His pupils are wide, his breathing uneven, and his cock is still half hard against Dorian's stomach, but he tries to unwind himself anyway.

Dorian reaches between their bodies to run his fingers up the length of Cullen's dick through the cotton of his underwear, the touch barely firm enough to feel warmth passing under his fingertips. Cullen's breath catches, and Dorian does it again before Cullen moves as far away as he can and grabs his wrist.

"You don't need to," Cullen says, looking past Dorian, his eyes squinting as if he's trying to read something.

The bedside clock, Dorian thinks. He deliberately moves to block Cullen's view and smiles as he says, "If you want me to stop, I will, but don't tell me to stop because you think _I_ want to. Because trust me, I don't."

"It probably won't work," Cullen warns, "and even if it does, it's going to take a while. A long while."

"That would be terrible," Dorian murmurs. "Hours spent touching you, making you feel good. How sad for me."

That unfortunate sense of humor has gotten him into trouble in the past, but Cullen laughs and stops trying to pull away. His grip on Dorian's wrist turns softer, moving up the inside of his arm as lightly as Dorian was stroking his cock a minute ago. Dorian feels that touch everywhere, and his brain tries to shut down again.

He forces it back online when Cullen's hand comes to rest on Dorian's cock through his underwear. No way to be sure, but Dorian has a suspicion it will be a lot harder to convince Cullen to keep going if he manages to make Dorian come, so that makes it item number one on Dorian's list of things to avoid. Right now, anyway.

It's not hard to roll Cullen onto his stomach, probably because Cullen isn't expecting it. Once there, Dorian stretches out on top of him, nuzzling into Cullen's neck. "Tell me a fantasy," he murmurs in Cullen's ear, and the back of Cullen's neck turns red.

He also tenses, which Dorian doesn't understand until Cullen says, "Most of my fantasies require supplies we don’t have."

Dorian smiles and kisses the hollow under his ear. "I didn't say we were actually going to do it." _That's for later_ flashes through his head, but he's not allowed to put "Cullen" and "later" in the same sentence, so he says instead, "I just want you to think about it, tell me about it."

Cullen's still hesitating, and the flush across the back of his neck is deepening, so Dorian says, "That night in Greece, when I walked in to the room? I looked up and you were right fucking there, your pants almost falling off on their own, and I thought about turning you around, dropping to my knees, sucking your dick until you came in my mouth..."

The muscles in Cullen's back get even tighter, and Dorian frowns in confusion.

"Dorian," Cullen says awkwardly, "what...ummmm...you know that...I mean...what h-happened to me..."

The words are like the iciest of cold showers, and Dorian almost recoils. Not from Cullen, but from the images now bursting in his brain, fed by ten years running around in some of the darkest corners of the world. Harder to resist than the urge to pull away is the urge to press closer, to try to comfort, because Dorian doesn't know if that would be welcome.

Bloody buggering _fuck_.

Before Dorian can figure out how to back-pedal without making things worse, Cullen laughs weakly. "Not that," he says. "Jesus Christ, I'm not trying to tell you that they raped me. It's just, some of what they did to me...they probably used the same...tools...on other people...."

"And they don't autoclave the torture implements?" Dorian says, because making jokes is what he does when he's stressed.

Fortunately, Cullen laughs again, and this time it's less strained. "I didn't get a chance to ask, but I'm gonna guess not."

"Probably a safe guess," Dorian says. His thoughts are completely scattered. Cullen's fear of whatever blood-born infection might be lurking inside him is hardly trivial, but it's nothing against the high-def video still playing in Dorian's head, scripted off the most brutal things he's seen and with Cullen in the starring role.

Sex is about the last thing he's interested in, now. The way his stomach is roiling, throwing up seems more likely.

"Well," he says brightly. "I've made a hash of this, haven't I?"

"Sorry," Cullen mutters, and his neck is red again. "I didn't mean to..."

"Hey," Dorian says, "You didn't do anything. I'm the one who stumbled into all this because he wasn't thinking." He shifts his weight to move away, but before he can do it, Cullen reaches back to grab his knee.

"I didn't say I wanted you to stop," Cullen says quietly. "I mean, unless you want to."

"I wasn't leaving," Dorian says. "Just trying to make you more comfortable."

"I'm comfortable like this." He takes a deep breath, his sides pressing against Dorian's legs. "I just don't want to risk...sharing...something neither of us wants to share."

"I think maybe we need to discuss the line between fantasy and reality," Dorian teases. "Talking about sucking your cock isn't the same thing as doing it." Though god knows he wants to do that, too. That and more. He wants...he wants...

He wants too much, too many things he can't have, and he can either set all that aside and enjoy what he's got, or get nothing at all. They have barely more than two hours now, and then Cullen will go back to his family, and then to wherever the army wants to send him once he's cleared for active duty. He'll be back with his own friends, too, back with real adults, and Dorian will be hundreds or maybe thousands of miles away.

This is his last chance, and he doesn't care how bad an idea it is, he's doing it anyway.

"I'm familiar with the difference between fantasy and reality." Cullen's amused voice brings Dorian back the present. "I'm just not used to talking about it except when I'm trying to turn one into the other. Stage directions, I guess."

"Or a party invitation," Dorian says with a grin. If he only gets this one chance, he's fucking well going to make it as good as he can within whatever limits Cullen wants to set. He's creative. Short of "don't touch me and don't talk to me," he can work with pretty much anything.

The first step is to get Cullen to relax again, because his muscles are so tense Dorian's sure the only part of him that's not hard right now is his dick. Settling himself a little farther down Cullen's body, Dorian digs his thumbs into the muscles on either side of his spine, working his way slowly upward. Oil would make this easier, but again, Dorian's prepared to work with what he's got. Somehow, he doesn't think he'll be able to get Cullen horizontal again if he goes to fetch the lotion from the bathroom.

As he digs his knuckles into a knot under one of Cullen's shoulder blades, Cullen groans softly. "I feel like I should tell you to stop, but I can't."

"I think we'll just agree to ignore this shameful moment of weakness," Dorian says.

Cullen opens his mouth to say something just as Dorian twists his hand, and the words turn into a grunt.

"Let me know if I push too hard," Dorian says, rocking his knuckles against the knot, feeling the weird, soft almost-crunch as it starts to give way.

Cullen makes a choked noise of acknowledgement, and Dorian focuses all his attention on what he's doing. That it gives him an excuse to touch every inch of Cullen's body is a happy side effect, even as he tries to keep his hands firm. A massage, not a "massage," no matter that it does involve removing Cullen's underwear and kicking the blankets off the bed. From the crown of Cullen's head to the soles of his feet, Dorian beats every muscle he can reach into limp submission.

With a little encouragement, Cullen rolls onto his back, and Dorian reverses course, starting at his feet and working his way up. This time, the touches get lighter as they get higher, so that by the time he gets to Cullen's chest he's barely brushing his fingers over the skin. He kisses one nipple, teasing it with his tongue for long seconds before moving to the other one. Cullen is shifting under him, small movements Dorian doesn't think he's aware of, and when he looks down, Cullen's dick is showing signs of recovery.

He looks up in time to catch Cullen glancing at the clock, like he's got some kind of stopwatch in his head: after X number of minutes, the game is over and Cullen will declare himself too tired to continue, "but I can jerk you off." Dorian can picture it easily, and he's not going to let it happen this time.

He lies down beside Cullen, head on his shoulder, index finger drawing random patterns through the curls of hair on his chest. "So forget practicalities," he says quietly. "Forget reality. If you could have anything you wanted right now, what would it be?"

"A shower," Cullen says. "A shower I don't have to share with anyone."

He's being difficult on purpose now, but Dorian can think of worse places to start than a shower. He comes up on one elbow so he can see Cullen smirking at him. _Challenging_ him. "And what would we be doing in this shower?"

"Showering?" Cullen suggests, but his cheeks are turning red.

"Showering is nice," Dorian agrees. He puts his cheek against Cullen's, thumb brushing one nipple as he murmurs, "Or I could jerk you off, nice and slow. I'd take my sweet time with it, too, enjoy the feel of your cock in my hand, listen to you beg me for more. I think that's only fair, after the way you teased me last time."

Cullen's breathing is a little too quick, and Dorian smiles, scraping teeth along the underside of his jaw. "I could suck you," Cullen says hesitantly. His face and neck are now bright red, but god love him, he's trying. "I...I've been thinking about it, about what you would taste like, how it would feel, your dick in my mouth."

Dorian hums approvingly into his neck, trying to decide where to take this next.

But to his surprise, Cullen keeps right on going, whispering, "That night in Greece, you kept grinding your ass against my dick, and god, I wanted to fuck you, bend you over and fuck you until you came, or put you on your back so I could watch your face, jerk you off while I fucked you."

If he says "fuck you" one more time in that low voice, Dorian might lose his mind. He's the one who's breathing too fast now, his hips moving in small jerks to press his cock against Cullen's thigh. "Is that what we're going to do in the shower?" Dorian asks, trying to make a joke to help him regain some control. "You're going to fuck me?"

Cullen's hand strokes down his back to cup his ass, pulling their bodies together so Cullen's dick presses into Dorian's stomach. "With what for lube?" Cullen says, teasing him right back.

It's damned hard to think like this, so Dorian says the first thing that comes to mind. "Soap?"

"God no!" Cullen says, but he's laughing, and his hips are still rubbing his cock against Dorian. "I did that once when I was sixteen. It was horrible. Excruciating. For both of us."

"There you go, bringing reality into this again," Dorian says lightly. "If you're going to do that, then let's make this reality a little more fun."

He leans back and grabs Cullen's wrist, guiding his hand down to his own dick, curling his fingers around to cover the head. Cullen starts to stroke himself, but he stops when Dorian makes a disapproving noise. "Just keep your hand right there," Dorian says, and slides down to lick his shaft.

Cullen gasps, his fingers tightening, then gasps again as Dorian tugs gently on his balls. The hand not around his cock rests on the back of Dorian's head, fingers working their way through his hair. "Don't stop," Cullen whispers, and Dorian thinks, _Ha!_ and doesn't stop.

It's not a quickie by anybody's definition, but Dorian doesn't care. Now that he's into it, Cullen stops trying to steal glances at the clock. His eyes track Dorian instead, and Dorian can feel it like a touch as he alternates between his mouth and his hand, keeping Cullen's shaft slick without killing either his hand or his jaw. Watching Cullen get hard and then harder is making Dorian ache, and he rubs his own cock through his underwear, slow strokes without trying to get himself off.

Cullen mumbles something, and Dorian lifts his head, looking up Cullen's body. The sight is so distracting he loses track of whatever Cullen says next, because Cullen's dick is hard and the muscles in his stomach and forearm are straining, and all Dorian's fantasies slam into him at the same time. He tears his gaze away and up to Cullen's eyes. "What?" he croaks.

"I want to see you," Cullen whispers, and Dorian twitches. "Please."

Dorian has always known he's not a nice man, and his resolve to make this entirely about Cullen can't stand up to those words in that low voice.

"You're a terrible influence," he says as he sits back on his heels, straddling one of Cullen's thighs. "I just want you to know that."

" _I'm_ a bad influence?" Cullen demands. His hand is moving along the entire length of his cock now, his eyes roaming over Dorian's body. "I'm just an innocent bystander here."

"I don't know that innocent is the right word," Dorian says, and he'd planned to say more, but he can't remember the rest of it with Cullen looking at him like that, lips parted and eyes dark.

"I want to see _all_ of you," Cullen says, and it's pretty telling that Dorian had forgotten he's still got his underwear on.

It takes him about two seconds to remedy the situation, then he's back, kneeling across Cullen's thigh and stroking himself. He tries to keep his strokes light, but Cullen arches up under him, legs gripping, hips twisting, and when Cullen moans, Dorian's hand squeezes despite himself, strokes turning hard and fast as he watches Cullen do the same.

Orgasm hits him like a rock, hard and heavy with no chance to dodge, leaving him stunned and dizzy. He sways a little, almost overbalancing despite being on his knees already, and catches himself with a hand on the wall at the last second. When his eyes stop crossing, he looks down at Cullen, whose hand has stilled even as his muscles remain tense.

Dorian meets his eyes and whispers, "Please." It doesn't make a whole lot of sense in context, but Cullen seems to understand and is no more able to resist than Dorian was.

His strokes pick up again, and his body moves restlessly, his eyes mostly closed but occasionally blinking open to look at Dorian, who waits for one of those moments before putting his fingers in his mouth, sucking hard. The taste of come isn't one he normally seeks out, but Cullen's breath hitches and a shudder travels the length of his body as his own orgasm sweeps over him, and Dorian thinks that it's a taste he could learn to love, if he gets that reaction every time.

Not that there's much space in his brain for thinking anything right now, not while he's watching Cullen slide down off that high. If he hadn't already come, he would right now, and as it is, his dick twitches in his hand.

Eventually, Cullen's eyes open, and he gives Dorian a crooked smile. "You've got the patience of a saint, I swear. I'd've given up thirty minutes ago."

"But you didn't."

"I had a vested interest in sticking with it."

"What makes you think I didn't?" Dorian asks. "That was pretty fucking hot to watch."

The blush that spreads across Cullen's face is surprising after everything they've just done, but it's also so very Cullen that Dorian can't resist bending down to kiss one red cheek. Once he's there, it seems a shame not to nuzzle down into the space behind his ear, breathing deeply to draw in Cullen's smell.

Because this is the last time he's going to experience it, no matter how sincerely Cullen compliments him. Cullen is a nice guy, just like Bull said, and nice guys run from Dorian as fast as they can. With good reason, really.

The reminder is a guaranteed afterglow killer, and Dorian rolls off the bed, turning his back to scan the room for his jeans while he gets his face under control. "We should get ready," he says cheerfully, and if his voice sounds a little overly-bright to his own ears, he's confident Cullen won't be able to tell the difference. Bull _might_ be able to, but Cullen doesn’t have ten years of experience to draw on. Dorian has spent his whole life learning to hide his emotions, turning the survival skill his parents unwittingly taught him into a survival skill the army's happy to use, and he's smiled through a lot of things that should have had him on the ground screaming.

Still, for the first time in his life, he wishes he wasn't quite so good at it.

###

Cullen stares at the back of Dorian's head and swallows all the words building in his throat. Thank god Dorian turned away when he did, because the last thing Cullen needs is to babble out some mostly-incoherent, almost-certainly-unwelcome declaration of...what? Embarrassed gratitude? Awkward infatuation? Pathetic neediness?

Christ. He should have had some damn self-control in the first place, and if he couldn't manage that, then when his garbled explanation had nearly killed the mood, he should have slapped a DNR order on it and walked away. He should never have let Dorian spend the better part of two hours coaxing his body into cooperating, and as amazed as he is that it actually worked, it's not making it any easier to deal with the idea of "just friends."

Though Dorian does get full marks for persistence, and for being so distracting that Cullen forgot to be self-conscious about the time passing, or impatient with his own body. And how is he supposed to say "thank you" for that, anyway? Neither Miss Manners nor Emily Post ever covered it, so he says nothing, just climbs slowly out of bed to find his own clothes.

They're both quiet while they get ready to leave, moving around each other without speaking. Cullen is uncomfortably aware of that silence, and the distance between them, especially jarring after two hours of Dorian's body pressed against him and Dorian's voice in his ear. Half a dozen times, he almost opens his mouth to say something, but every time, he glances at Dorian's face--cheerful and relaxed--and says nothing.

Bull's return makes the situation both more and less awkward. Less awkward, because now there's someone else around, and listening to Bull and Dorian bait each other is as funny as ever. More awkward, because the look Bull gives him seems to go straight through his skin and read every thought and emotion as easily as if Cullen was carrying a sign.

Down in the hotel lobby, Bull surprises him with a quick hug. "Take care of yourself, Chief. And gimme a call sometime, you're ever up in Seattle." He's holding out a slip of paper with his phone number on it, and Cullen takes it, bemused.

Dorian doesn't hug him, but he does steal the piece of paper away long enough to add a second number. He hands it back with a grin and says, "What he said."

Getting a new cell phone is one of the many items on Cullen's to-do list, so he just stuffs the paper into his pocket and nods. A part of his brain is screaming "nonononono!" like a two-year-old being sent to bed early, but this really is the end of the line. He can't follow them to Seattle like a lost puppy, and they have no reason to go to Bumfuck, Kentucky.

"See you around," he says, and slings his bag over one shoulder.

That piece of paper seems to weigh about ten pounds, given how much he's aware of it over the next few hours. Half a dozen times, he pulls it out and stares at it, telling himself to just throw it away, and every time, he folds it up and puts it back in his pocket. As he's getting off the plane, he almost does it, reminding himself of all the reasons why keeping in touch with Bull and Dorian is a terrible idea. Especially Dorian, and it's not like he can keep in touch with Bull without running into Dorian sooner or later. His hand is actually over the trash can, but his feet keep walking and his fingers don't open and after a few steps, he gives up and puts the paper away again.

On the other side of security, his entire family is waiting for him, an enthusiastic mob barely restrained by the senior Rutherford's barked, "Let the boy breathe!"

This doesn't apply to Cullen's mother, of course, and she throws her arms around his neck without hesitation, burying her tear-stained face in his shoulder. Cullen's not feeling all that in control himself, and having his mother crying on him isn't helping, but he doesn't complain, just hugs her back, and says, "Hey, Mama."

She laughs weakly. "Hey, baby."

After she's had her turn, and his father's had his, the others surge forward. There are more hugs, and handshakes, and back slaps, and yet more hugs, even from his sister's husband who usually avoids him like The Gay might be catching. For today, at least, Bobby is smiling and glad to see him, using their clasped hands to pull Cullen into a quick, hard hug. "Glad you made it back," he says gruffly.

That's actually the point where Cullen almost comes apart, because he knows Bobby means it, and it drives home exactly how lucky he is that he didn't fly home in a wooden box.

"Me, too," he says, and Bobby snorts out a laugh.

His father gets them all moving eventually, through the airport and into various cars and vans, blocking attempts to pull Cullen away to ride with this nephew or that sister. "He'll ride with me and his mama," he says, and no one dares to argue.

Cullen isn't surprised when his mother slides into the back seat with him, nor is he surprised when she holds his hand the entire trip home. Other than her death grip on his fingers, she doesn't give any indication that she's upset: the tears are gone, and she chatters about nothing in particular. It's more soothing than silence, because it requires almost no thought from Cullen while still providing a distraction from everything spinning around in his head.

He only speaks once, into a brief pause when they're about halfway home. "I'm retiring," he says.

"You do what you need to do, baby," she says, patting his hand. "Whatever you do, I know you'll make me and your daddy proud."

Cullen nods and lets her resume her monologue, the words washing over him comfortingly.

At home, though, he retreats as soon as he can. Listening to his mother is soothing; listening to eight adults and half a dozen kids is pretty much the opposite. The back porch isn't private--anyone standing in the kitchen can see him--but they leave him alone, and that's enough for now. He leans against the railing, staring out at the fields behind the house, and tries not to think about anything.

It's been probably an hour before he hears the door open and heavy footsteps coming toward him across the boards. Cullen glances over as his father props his elbows on the railing, just outside arm's reach, and frowns thoughtfully at the gathering darkness.

"Hangin' in there?" he asks.

"Mostly," Cullen says.

"You allowed to tell me what happened?"

"Not really. I had some useful intel, someone wanted it." There's maybe more he could say, but that covers the essentials and he's not in the mood to dig it all up. "They debriefed me in Landstuhl."

His father nods. "Fair 'nough."

They lean against the railing in companionable silence for a few more minutes, before his father straightens with a sigh. "You want to come eat?"

Cullen gives it some serious thought, weighing his food cravings against being surrounded by the chaos of his family, and his father waits patiently. Finally, he matches his father's sigh. "Sure."

"Don't have to. Your mama will be happy to make you a plate."

"I know. But I'll be okay for a little while."

That "little while" turns out to be just under forty-five minutes, during which Cullen mostly focuses on eating and smiling politely. He eats too much, and he's feeling a little queasy by the time he makes his second retreat, this time to the basement guest room where he'll be staying until he gets his shit together. However long that takes.

In the dark silence of the guest room, Cullen sits on the side of the bed and spends a few minutes just breathing. Everything has changed too quickly, and he feels like something got lost between here and Landstuhl. He's more than glad to be home, but it doesn't feel real yet. If he's lucky, when he wakes up he'll be back in the cabin with Bull and Dorian, rather than back in that cell, but either way, a part of him _knows_ that this is a dream he'll lose any second now.

Eventually his heart rate slows, and he stands to shuck his jeans and begin getting ready for bed, only to have something rustle in one of the pockets. Pulling it out, he stares at the two phone numbers and thinks again about throwing the paper away. It would make his life a lot simpler, really, but instead, he puts it on his night stand, smoothing out the wrinkles with a careful finger.

Tomorrow. He'll get himself a new cell phone tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is _also_ not the chapter that made me change the rating to explicit. In case you were wondering.
> 
> Also, do Cullen's parents have _names_? I can find his siblings' names on the wiki, but not his parents'. I'm happy to make something up, but if they're already named in canon, I'm perfectly happy to just use that.


	18. I Will Survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh as long as I know how to love  
> I know I'll stay alive  
> I've got all my life to live  
> I've got all my love to give  
> And I'll survive  
> I will survive
> 
> Freddie Perren and Dino Fekari, "I Will Survive"
> 
> This song was on the radio, and it was a good match for this chapter anyway, but then there's also a bit about changing the locks that made it perfect. You'll know why when you get there. :)  
> *******************************************  
> I got back from my trip yesterday and couldn't sleep, so I wrote you guys some more stuff because my bedroom ceiling isn't that interesting and writing while sleep deprived usually works okay for me. Usually.

The trip home is about as fun as Dorian expected, which is to say, not very much. Bull gives him his space, letting him brood in peace with a refreshing lack of sarcastic commentary, and when they hit Seattle at some stupid hour of the morning, Bull asks, "Want to crash on my couch?"

It's not like his own house is any farther away than Bull's, but Dorian is pathetically grateful for the offer anyway. Not being alone sounds like a good plan right now. "Yeah," he says.

Those are about the only words they say to each other, even once they get to Bull's house. After ten years, it's not like they don't know their way around each other, and each other's houses, and Dorian can dig up his own pillow and blanket without direction from Bull. All he gets--and all he wants--is a quick squeeze of one shoulder before Bull takes himself off to bed and leaves Dorian to lie on the couch, staring at the ceiling in between fitful dreams.

The moratorium on conversation is apparently over by the time they're sitting down to a late breakfast just before noon. Bull makes enough for two people and then eats it all while Dorian works his way through several cups of strong coffee and a few stolen bites of Bull's toast.

As he chases the last bit of egg around his plate, Bull asks, "You okay?"

"Fine," Dorian says, with what he hopes is the right degree of cheerfulness. "Rilienus and I are having dinner tonight."

"Not what I asked," Bull says. "I asked if you were okay, not if you were getting your dick sucked in the next twenty-four hours."

"I thought that was synonymous with fine, personally."

Bull doesn't smile, just raises an expectant eyebrow as he finishes off his toast.

Dorian sighs. "Yes, I'm fine. It's not like I expected it to be anything more than a fun way to kill a few hours."

Bull continues to say nothing, that eyebrow still up.

Dorian holds out for almost a minute this time, but eventually he gives in and says, "All right, I _knew better_ than to think it would be more than a bit of fun. That I made the mistake of thinking it anyway is a disappointment I'll just have to learn to live with, isn't it?"

"You could call him," Bull says dryly. "Or text him, or whatever it is you kids do these days."

"Should I send a telegram?" Dorian asks innocently. "I mean, he's your age, isn't that what you old guys do?"

"Fuck you. Stop. Kiss my ass. Stop."

Dorian smiles reluctantly. "I'll be all right," he says, less cheerfully but more sincerely. "Besides, it's not like I've got his number. If he calls me, then we'll see." He drains the last of his coffee and stands. "But barring that, can we just not talk about it?"

"Whatever makes you happy," Bull says, carrying his plate into the kitchen.

Dorian resists the urge to say that having Cullen call would make him happy, because he's trying to kill that particular conversational thread, not extend it into a pity party of indefinite duration. As he slots his mug into the dishwasher, he glances at the clock and says, "I've got a few hours before Rilienus will be over. You want to do something?" Because he wants to be by himself about as much as he wants to talk about Cullen.

They end up playing Call of Duty for a few hours, and Dorian lets it turn his brain off, focusing on exchanging insults with Bull while they slaughter hapless pixels. Bull kicks him out eventually, when their combined body count is well into the triple digits, and Dorian tries not to give him the sad puppy eyes. He does have plenty to do, after all, and he can't hide in Bull's house forever. If nothing else, it wouldn't hurt him to do laundry and some grocery shopping before Rilienus arrives; the evening's festivities might not involve actual dinner, but they're bound to get hungry eventually, and Rilienus is a complete snob. Just the suggestion that they order a pizza has horrified him in the past.

Which means Dorian suggests it regularly, but then, he's never been a nice man, and Rilienus knew what he was in for when they started hanging around together.

All in all, he's not in a terrible mood when he pulls into his garage, and in the back of his head, a vague hope begins to take root. Maybe Cullen will call, and Dorian can-

Thoughts about what he can do vanish as he opens the door between the house and the garage, and the first thing he sees is a shirt. It's not his shirt, and even if it was, he knows he didn't leave it lying in the middle of the hallway.

His hand draws his gun while his forebrain is still puzzling over the dirty laundry, but before everything turns into a complete cluster-fuck, he hears an all-too-familiar voice from the living room.

"Who 's it?" Servis slurs, and Dorian seriously considers shooting him and pretending he didn't know who it was until it was too late. "So tragic, Officer," he can imagine himself saying, oozing sincerity. "I thought he was a burglar, you see."

_Paperwork,_ he reminds himself. _Think of the paperwork._

So he holsters his gun like a responsible adult and marches into the living room armed only with his wits and his tongue. Which still leaves Servis completely out-gunned.

"What are you doing here?" Dorian asks flatly. Servis is lounging on the sofa with a beer in one hand and a confused expression on his face. He doesn't have a shirt on, but at least he's wearing jeans. Dorian was half-afraid he'd find him naked. "I have a very clear memory of changing the locks after you left the last time."

"After you threw me out," Servis mutters. "And what kinda greeting is that?"

"The best you're getting. What. Are you doing. In my house."

"Awwww, c'mon man, I just needed a place to crash for a while, and that lady 'cross the street let me in when I 'splained it to her." He frowns at Dorian, the frown of a drunk sober enough to try to pretend he's not drunk. "Why're you so pissy?"

"Bad genetics," Dorian snaps. "And I'll show you pissy like you've never seen it if you don't get your ass off my sofa, pick up your shit, and get the fuck out of my house."

There's more whining, of course, and a garbled explanation Dorian mines for the relevant details, and more childish insults that leave Dorian annoyed with himself. What did he see in this asshole in the first place? Christ.

Finally, _finally_ , he gets Servis moving. As he staggers around the house, picking stuff up and slinging it into the trash bags Dorian helpfully supplies, Dorian texts Bull one-handed: _I hate my life._

Less than a minute later, he gets a reply: _???_

One eye on his "guest," Dorian types back, _Guess who's out of jail?_

The wait is even shorter this time, and Bull's response makes him smile: _I'm on my way._

Servis is still picking up his shit when Bull arrives, but he takes one look at Bull's face and gets the lead out. Dorian would be annoyed that Bull's anger gets a reaction where his own didn't, except that all he really wants is Servis gone.

When everything is stuffed into three trash bags, Bull loads a still-protesting Servis into his car and Dorian walks across the street to talk to Mrs. Adaar. She answers the door with her usual broad smile.

"Dorian! How are you, dear?" Dorian is nearly a foot taller than she is, but she still manages to plant a kiss on his cheek. "When did you get back?"

"Just now, Mrs. A."

She's like a tiny black hole, a gravity well pulling him into the house despite his attempts to keep the conversation short, and before he knows it, he's sitting on her sofa with a cup of tea in his hands and a plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of him. Home-made cookies, at that. He gives up his protests and consoles himself with baked goods.

"Did your friend manage to reach you?" she asks as she sets the teapot--complete with knitted cozy--down beside the cookies.

"Ahhhh, yes," Dorian says, taking a sip of his tea while he tries to think of the right words. "About that."

Her eyes widen. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine." Unless he's managed to push Bull too far, in which case, he deserves whatever he gets. "But he lied to you, Mrs. A. He's not really my friend." Even when they'd been sleeping together, Dorian's not sure he would ever have called Servis a friend.

One hand goes to her mouth. "Oh, Dorian, I'm so sorry! But I only let him in because he said he needed to get something. He knew my name, that you'd told him to ask me." She's clearly agitated, her liver-spotted fingers going tight around her own teacup. "But I didn't leave him in your house, even though he asked me to. He told me it would be all right, that he would lock up when he left, but I knew you wouldn't like that."

"He stole my spare key while he was there," Dorian says, as gently as possible. She's maybe the nicest person he's ever met, one of those people who really would take off her coat and give it to a complete stranger, but she's way too trusting and has been the entire time Dorian's known her. He can't even blame her for getting lured in by Servis, though he does need to have a talk with certain other people about their unfortunate tendency to discuss Dorian's extended absences with anyone and everyone. "And then he came back and stayed. He's been there most of the last week."

"No!" She's more than agitated: now she's almost in tears.

"He didn't do any damage," Dorian hastens to tell her, and it's mostly true. All the damage can be fixed with a vacuum and a mop, and it's not like he doesn't have time. "But, Mrs. A, you really need to be more careful. I don't mean because of me, I can take care of myself, but what about you? You can't just let strangers into your house."

There follows a painful five minutes in which she apologizes repeatedly for letting Servis in and Dorian tries to explain that the real problem is her willingness to always think the best of everyone, regardless of how long--or how briefly--she's known them. He's not sure why he tries, actually: it's not like this is the first time they've had this conversation, and he isn't going to change her. She's almost eighty years old, and besides, she's an excellent antidote for all the crazy shit he sees when he's out of the country. It just...backfired this time.

After the eighth or ninth time he tells her it's all right, she sighs. "I'll try to be more careful."

"That's all I'm asking," he assures her. "Especially when I'm not here." Then, before she can make him feel worse by continuing to apologize, he changes the subject quickly. "How's your granddaughter?"

It works, exactly as he knew it would. "Oh, Herah's doing well!" Mrs. Adaar is beaming at him. "She has a new girlfriend, and they came to dinner last night."

And it turns out this was a poor choice of topic. Fuck.

Well, he's stuck with it now, so he shoves away thoughts of his own less-than-amazing love life and smiles. "Dinner, huh? How did it go?"

"Oh, very well. Sera--that's her name, Sera and Herah, so sweet, isn't it?--Sera is very..." She hesitates, and Dorian waits, curiosity overcoming the sting of yet another reminder of Cullen. At last, Mrs. Adaar settles on, "She's very earthy."

By which Dorian deduces that he'd probably get along well with Herah's new girlfriend, but he doesn't say so. Before the pause can grow awkward, Mrs. Adaar hurries on. "She's from England, and she has the most charming accent. More tea, dear?"

"Oh, no thank you. I'm fine." He takes a sip to prove it. Tea isn't really his thing, but it's what she always serves, and he has no desire to complain, seeing as it's always served with cookies. Which reminds him of the plate located so conveniently close to his knee.

As he picks up a gingersnap, Mrs. Adaar adds, "She was very nice, though. She complimented me on my cookies, and asked for the recipe."

"So she has good taste," Dorian says, "but if she's dating Herah, we already knew that."

Mrs. Adaar laughs. "Oh, Dorian, ever the charmer. But I've been remiss, nattering on about Herah. How was your trip, dear?"

She always asks it exactly like that, as if he's a businessman off to woo clients, rather than a soldier off to shoot people. It annoyed him briefly, back when he first moved here, but now it's just another one of her quirks, part and parcel of the way she looks at the world and everyone in it.

"Not bad," he says. He gives her the heavily edited version of the last two months, expurgated to the point where he's basically lying, but she's a rapt audience, and he lets that story roll into another.

Five cookies, three anecdotes, and one cup of tea later, the doorbell rings just as Dorian's phone buzzes in his pocket. Mrs. Adaar goes to answer it, and Dorian sets his cup down on the table to dig his hand into his pocket. He's barely swiped his thumb across the screen when the door opens and Bull says, "Hi, Mrs. A."

"Hello, dear! How are you?"

Dorian loses track of the conversation then, all his attention on his newest text message. It's short, just two sentences, but he stares at the screen for far longer than it takes him to read the words: _Hey, it's Cullen. Got a new phone._

There are a lot of answers he could make to that. Instead of making any of them, he stuffs his phone back into his pocket and stands up. "I'm sorry, Mrs. A," he says as she comes back into the room with Bull. "I just looked at the time, and I've got a friend coming over soon. I need to get moving."

"Well, it was nice of you to visit, dear," she says, and Dorian leans down for the requisite kiss on his cheek. "I hope you and your friend have a nice evening."

Normally Bull would have some commentary on that, but now he just smirks over Mrs. Adaar's head, a smirk that vanishes as soon as she turns around.

"Now, Benjamin, why don't you sit and have a cookie?" And just like that, the mini gravity well that is Mrs. Adaar is now focused on Bull, who takes Dorian's abandoned chair without a murmur of protest. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," he says

While she's in the kitchen fetching a new cup, Dorian leans down to say, "We didn't get through the mail."

"I'll get it," Bull says, and smacks him on the ass. "Move it, wouldn't want to miss your date with Rilienus."

There's a bite to the words that Dorian doesn't understand and doesn't care to pursue right now. Bull and Rilienus will never be best friends, but they get along well enough most of the time, and Bull's never shown the slightest disapproval for Dorian's hookups. Not with Rilienus, anyway. He's had plenty of commentary on pretty much every guy Dorian's ever _dated_ \--including Servis--and he's never been afraid to let his opinion be known. Opinions Dorian's ignored in almost every instance, despite knowing he's going to regret those decisions later.

And oh, has he regretted them.

He rolls his shoulders, shaking off the gloom as Mrs. Adaar returns with a cup and saucer for Bull. As amusing as it would be to stay and watch Bull drink tea from Mrs. Adaar's floral china, Dorian really does need to be going if he has any hope of making his house and himself presentable before Rilienus arrives.

"So, Mrs. A," Bull says as Dorian pats himself down to check for phone, wallet, and keys, "let's do the mail first so I don't forget. Dorian'll never let me hear the end of it otherwise."

She makes a disapproving noise with her tongue--she doesn't like it when they dig at each other--but hands him the stack of mail without actually saying anything.

It's not all of her mail, just the advertisements and offers that she wants to accept, that she's too trusting to doubt. At least she'll let Dorian or Bull or Herah go through the stack before she actually mails anyone a check. He lets himself out to the sound of Bull explaining patiently why something or other is a scam, while Mrs. Adaar makes doubtful noises. On her front porch and safely out of sight, Dorian rubs his eyes and shakes his head. Thank god she doesn't have email, or he might go prematurely grey.

Back in his own house with the door shut, Dorian surveys the disaster that Servis left behind and feels an overwhelming combination of anger and loathing, only half of which is directed at Servis. Any pipe-dreams he was entertaining about calling Cullen die as he looks around, and he thinks seriously about deleting the text from earlier. The whole afternoon has been one smack in the face after another, a series of reminders that he's really a pretty shitty adult, while Cullen is master-class. Cullen's back with his family, and soon enough he'll find some guy who doesn't need to look at his phone to list out all his former lovers, and even if he does, he won't be checking the blocked numbers.

_Give it up, Pavus,_ he tells himself, and busies himself with cleaning in an effort to drown out his thoughts. He can't quite bring himself to delete Cullen's text, though.

By the time Rilienus knocks on the door, Dorian is at least doing a decent job of pretending everything's all right, and he manages to open the door with a smile. "Come on in," he says, standing aside.

"Glad to see you made it back," Rilienus says, wiping his feet carefully on the mat before he closes the door. It's one of the things that saves him from being an asshole, that he's always respectful of other people and other people's stuff.

"Yeah, well, Bull says he'll kill me if I die, so that's some motivation right there."

Rilienus smiles. "How is he, anyway?"

"He's good. He said to tell you hi." Before Rilienus can extend the chit chat, Dorian closes the distance between them, planting his hands on the door to bracket Rilienus's head. He leans in to bring their mouths almost close enough to kiss, breathing the next words against Rilienus's lips. "And I really don't want to talk right now."

Something flashes across Rilienus's face, something that looks remarkably like sympathy, and Dorian crushes their mouths together before one of them says something they'll both regret. He doesn't want sympathy or pity or understanding, or anything in the least bit soft. He wants hard and fast and dirty, the kind of sex that doesn't leave room for thinking about anyone else.

It works well enough at first, but when they're naked on his bed, Rilienus's very talented mouth drawing curses and pleas from Dorian's, his thoughts betray him. He sees Cullen's blond curls, feels Cullen's stubble rasping against his thighs, and he comes with a gasp, arching off the bed and up into Cullen's mouth.

The fantasy crashes apart even before Dorian's hips fall back to the mattress, and he feels like shit for too many reasons to count. At least Rilienus can't see into his head, and Dorian knows he'll be able to make it up to him as soon as he can sit up without passing out.

"So," Rilienus says, and Dorian looks down to see him propped with his forearms across Dorian's thighs. His artfully canted eyebrow is all the warning Dorian gets. "Who's Cullen?"

"Fuck," Dorian whispers. His head drops back to the pillow, and he puts both hands over his face. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"We'll get to that in a second," Rilienus says, "but first, I do feel the need to tell you that while you have the hottest mouth it's ever been my pleasure to be sucked by, the next time you call me by another man's name when I've got my lips around your cock, I'm going to bite it off." Dorian can hear the laugh in his voice, knows he's not as angry as his words sound, but that doesn't do anything to lessen the mortified burn currently setting Dorian's skin on fire.

"Fuck," he says into his palms. "Fuck, I'm _so_ sorry."

"I know how you can make it up to me," Rilienus says. "Always assuming that your previous statement regarding your desire to talk is still true. If it's not, do you want to tell me about it?"

"Yes, it's still true. No, I don't want to talk about it." Though he has to smile behind his hands, feeling a little better about his life. "You know you're getting this all wrong, though. Fuck buddies aren't supposed to talk about shit."

"Yes, well, that would be the 'buddies' part of this, wouldn't it?" He crawls up the bed to lie on his side, one of his legs slung over both of Dorian's. "You know I worry about you."

Which is way too serious for Dorian to deal with tonight, but it does loosen the knots in his chest a little more. Rilienus might be a snob, one with vocal opinions on the dangers and foolhardiness of Dorian's chosen career, but he's a good guy, and a good friend.

Dorian finally drops his hands, his face only a little red. "Not kidding about the not talking," he says.

"Then I think there's something else you could be doing with your mouth," Rilienus says, and Dorian laughs, shoving him over onto his back.


	19. Why Haven't I Heard From You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there's no problem gettin' to me  
> Baby you can dial direct  
> I got call forwarding, call waiting  
> You can even call collect  
> The service man he told me that my phone is working fine  
> And I've come to the conclusion trouble isn't with my line  
> I'm sure the operator will be glad to put you thru  
> So dial zero for assistance if this all confuses you
> 
> So tell me why haven't I heard from you  
> Tell me why haven't I heard from you  
> I say now: Darlin', honey, what is your excuse  
> Why haven't I heard from you
> 
> Sandy Knox & T. W. Hale, "Why Haven't I Heard From You?"
> 
> (This is one of my favorite songs, and reading the lyrics doesn't do it justice. I laugh every time I hear it.)

The panic attack slams into him in the middle of the night, and Cullen is crouched on the floor with his hands over his head before he's fully awake. Fear chokes off his air and makes his heart thud under his skin, every instinct he has screaming that something is coming for him _right fucking now_. He tries to think and can't, tries to breathe and can't, and mostly just huddles beside the bed until it finally passes.

His muscles unlock eventually, and he uncurls himself slowly, enough to sit against the wall with his feet pressed to the side of the mattress. Thought is creeping back, bringing with it the inevitable embarrassment. It doesn't matter that no one else was here to see his weakness; he knows, and he hates that he's reduced to this again.

As the panic eases, leaving only cold sweat and a vague queasiness, Cullen can't help but be glad he didn't make Dorian any promises. He's a complete mess right now, and the last thing he's suited for is building any kind of new relationship. A part of him wishes he hadn't even texted, but since Dorian hasn't answered, it doesn't really matter.

Three days home, and he's yet to get a full night's sleep. Cat-naps during the day make up some of the difference, enough that he's not snarling at everyone yet, but what he really wants-- _needs_ \--is eight uninterrupted hours of real sleep. There's a bottle of pills on his nightstand that would help with that, if he was willing to take them, but the thought just makes him angry and afraid. He's had enough of being doped up on drugs to last him a while, and his body is already doing so many things he doesn't want that every little bit of control he can hold on to is good. Critical.

Even if sleep is maybe getting to be just as critical.

When the only lingering sign of his panic attack is the sweat chilling his skin, Cullen hauls himself to his feet and drags on his jeans. Digging in the dresser, he pulls out a shirt so new he has to peel off the size sticker and slips that on, then adds a sweatshirt and a pair of socks. It might be almost June, but he's shivering, his teeth actually starting to chatter as his chest trembles with the cold.

Dressed except for his shoes, he stands in the dark room and looks at the bottle of pills, its white cap reflecting what little light there is. His hand reaches for it without conscious direction from his brain, and his legs fold until he's seated on the side of the bed. It's not like he has anywhere to be at four-thirty in the morning, so he just sits and stares at the bottle without really seeing it.

A soft knock on his door startles him, and his hand closes guiltily. "Come in," he says.

It's his father, and Cullen realizes there is something he could do at this hour of the morning. Two decades in the army--away from the farm--and he no longer has that instinctive urge to get up before dawn and do some back-breaking labor, but a working farm can always use another pair of hands.

A little manual labor sounds like a good plan right now, and he stands. "You want some help?" he asks, before his father can speak.

"If you want, but you don't have to. Just came to check on you, heard you moving around in here. You all right?"

"Yeah, sure," he says, then proves himself wrong by forgetting about the pill bottle in his hand until he's already reaching for his shoes.

Frustrated and disgusted, he starts to throw the bottle in the trash, but his father's hand closes around his wrist with all the strength won from a life of hard jobs.

Startled, Cullen looks up at him. There's no reading his expression in the dimness, and his tone is calm as he says, "I'm only gonna say this once, 'cause you're a grown man and you can make your own decisions."

He seems to be waiting for something, so Cullen makes an "I'm listening" noise, even as he braces himself.

"I know all 'bout wanting to tell doctors where they can stick their damn pills, but you're no use to anybody if you don't sleep."

Then before Cullen can respond, or really, before he can do anything except gape, his father lets go of his wrist and leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind himself.

Cullen looks down at the bottle in his hand, torn between laughter and anger, and for some reason, he flashes back to the day he came out to his parents. He could read his mother's face easily--unsurprised, maybe resigned--but his father's was a complete mystery. After a minute of tense silence, Cullen demanded, "Well? Are you gonna yell at me?"

"Would it change anything?" his father asked.

Eighteen years old and shaking with fear--he'd been sick for two days, anticipating this conversation--Cullen drew himself up for a fight. "No!"

"Then why bother?" his father asked, getting up from the kitchen table. "Barn still needs to be shoveled." He didn't say anything else, but he squeezed Cullen's shoulder on the way by, and that was the end of it.

His father doesn't say the words "I love you" very often, and yet, the conversation Cullen had been dreading, the confession that makes so many of his friends cringe when recalling their own experiences, is one of his favorite memories of his father. Two decades later, he can still remember the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder.

Now, standing in the darkness listening to his father's steps recede, Cullen switches the pill bottle to his other hand and rotates his wrist slowly, feeling the imprint of those fingers holding him back.

###

Dorian shifts around on the sofa and tries to concentrate on the movie. It was Bull's turn to pick, so of course there's a regrettable lack of explosions and far too many people kissing. Not that Dorian has any objection to kissing, or watching other people kiss, but really, if he's going to watch a movie with kissing, he expects to see it progress to something significantly more interesting sooner or later. If there are no explosions and no plot, then he might as well go home and watch porn, and this particular movie has a plot even thinner than that of most of the romantic comedies Bull has inflicted on him over the course of their friendship.

Still, Bull's leg makes a decent pillow, and he can drift in and out of sleep without losing the thread of the "plot", such as it is. He's hanging in that limbo, just awake enough to notice that his thoughts are scattering, when Bull's phone buzzes on the coffee table.

"Pass me that?" Bull asks, poking him in the shoulder.

Dorian groans out a protest and rolls forward, slapping his hand down on the coffee table with melodramatic force, patting around until he finds the phone and can roll back. "Who is it?" he asks, mostly for form's sake.

Except that Bull doesn't answer, and Dorian goes on alert, sitting up so he can see Bull's face, which is blandly uninformative as he reads whatever's on his screen. One arm is still draped casually over the back of the couch, and everything about his body language screams "nothing to see here". Dorian isn't fooled.

"New girlfriend?" he asks, even though he's pretty sure that's not it.

"Nope," Bull says, bringing his other hand to the phone to tap out a reply.

"New boyfriend?"

"Nope."

Dorian fixes him with a beady stare. "Who is it, then?"

At last Bull looks over at him, one eyebrow raised. "You know who it is or you wouldn't be bugging me."

Dorian's stomach gives a weird lurch, halfway between excitement and dread. "Cullen?"

"See, I knew you'd get there eventually."

There are a lot of things Dorian could say to that, but what slips out is probably the most embarrassing of them. "Are you talking about me?"

Bull snorts and turns the phone around so Dorian can read the screen. "It's not all about you, Sparkler."

The words he can see don't make a lot of sense, so he takes the phone from Bull and scrolls back up through the conversation. It's not a long thread, and he's almost to the top before he figures it out. Chess. They're playing chess by text message. In between discussing the NFL postseason draft.

His thumb keeps moving mostly on instinct, scrolling the last little way to the first message, a simple, _Hey, it's Cullen._ Curious, he swipes to the side to see the timestamp, and scowls. "He texted you first."

"What are we, in preschool?" Bull reclaims his phone and turns off the screen, setting it on the arm of the couch out of Dorian's reach. "And how many times have you looked at his message, that you can remember what time he sent it?"

"Bite me," Dorian says, and slouches down on the far end of the sofa.

"So is there a reason you're not answering him?" Bull asks.

Dorian looks back at the TV, where some guy is earnestly professing his devotion to a gorgeous blonde. And all right, maybe he wasn't following the plot as well as he thought he was, because he has no idea who either character is or why he should care whether she says yes, or even if yes is the right answer here. Still, watching the movie is suddenly a lot more to his taste than meeting Bull's gaze.

Except that Bull cheats by turning off the TV. "Okay," he says as he sets the remote back down. "Time's up. Either start talking or stop sulking."

"I am not sulking," he says with disdain.

"Whatever you want to call it," Bull says, and there's no laugh in his voice, "stop doing it, or start doing something about it. Another week like this one and your face is going to freeze like that."

Just to be obnoxious, Dorian makes the most childish face he can, eyes crossed and tongue out with one finger tilting up the tip of his nose.

"Hey, that would be an improvement," Bull says. "At least it's funny. You could work kids' parties."

Dorian shudders dramatically. "Ugh, no. There's not enough money in the world." He sinks further down into the sofa, scowling at the darkened TV. That he knows Bull's right only makes it worse: he's spent most of his time since their return doing nothing but moping around the house feeling sorry for himself, except for the couple of nights Bull dragged him out to sit in restaurants feeling sorry for himself. He's been shitty company, and he knows it, and that Bull has tolerated it in silence for more than a week is service above and beyond the call of friendship.

"I was stupid," he says at last.

To his credit, Bull doesn't ask Dorian to enumerate all of the various stupidities from the past two months, because there have been a lot of them. Instead, he says, "Hey, he wanted to, you wanted to. Not sure why that's stupid."

"No, the stupid part was wanting more," Dorian says bitterly. "You were right, what you said in Norfolk: he's a nice guy, and I'm not. Why would he want anything to do with me now we're back?"

Bull looks momentarily stricken, and it's such an unusual expression that Dorian stops talking to stare.

"Shit, Dorian," Bull says. "I didn't mean it like that."

It's a joke they've made plenty of times in the past, about themselves and each other, and it's never stung before; if anything, it's been a point of pride.

"I know," Dorian says. "But it's true."

"No," Bull says sharply. "It's not."

Dorian rolls his eyes. "Please let's not have this conversation again."

"Dorian," Bull says. That's twice in less than a minute that Bull's called him by his first name, and Dorian blinks at him. "Yeah, you made some dumb choices when you were younger. So what? You don't like those choices, make different ones now."

"You know," Dorian drawls, "I think I saw that on an inspirational poster once."

Bull lazily flips him off. "Or keep doing the same stupid shit. Whatever. It's your life."

Which would make a pretty good de-motivational poster, but somehow Dorian doesn't think Bull's going to let him hijack this into a discussion about despair.com.

He forces himself to stop making jokes so they can have the serious conversation Bull clearly wants to have. "It's not just my life, though, is it?" he says. "It's Cullen's life, too, and if he doesn't want me in it, then it would be a dick move to push him."

Bull nods sagely. "So you only wanted to be friends with him if it came with benefits?"

"Wait, what?" Dorian gapes at him. "No!"

"Then what's the problem? You just said he texted you, now text the man back."

Dorian growls in frustration. "Okay, fine, you know what? Yes, I want more, and I don't know if I can deal with 'just friends'. Happy?"

"I dunno. Are you?"

"Now you're just being a pain in the ass on purpose."

"You know you like it," Bull says, but Dorian can tell that the words are said by rote, that his thoughts are elsewhere. When Bull speaks again, it's slowly. "He's got some shit to deal with right now, and I don't think he's got room in his life for more than just friends. If you can live with that, then text him back. If you can't, then move on, but don't pretend it's all on him."

"Ouch," Dorian protests.

"I didn't say it was a bad thing, either way. Just get the fencepost out of your ass and pick one."

There are at least half a dozen jokes Dorian could make, but he swallows all of them. "So you're saying I should...what? Wait for him to get his shit straightened out and then make a pass?"

Bull shakes his head. "Nope. You either decide you're in this to be friends, and anything that happens down the road is a bonus, or you leave him the hell alone. Because I can fucking guarantee he'll know the difference, even if he can't say why talking to you is stressing him out. Don't be something else he needs to deal with, okay?"

"And again I say, 'Ouch'." Despite the words, Dorian can feel himself starting to smile.

"When I came back," Bull says, wiping away all of Dorian's amusement, "you were just _there_. Everybody else wanted to get in my space, fix me or do things for me or talk to me or what-the-fuck-ever, and you just...you were just there. You didn't want anything from me, not even for me to want something from you."

Dorian thinks about those first months after he stopped drinking, and while it's nothing like what Bull went through, he does remember how inexplicably fragile his life felt. Except around Bull, because...well, because Bull didn't want anything from him. Which is strange, because Bull was the one who pushed him to admit he had a problem in the first place, but having forced him to that admission, Bull stepped back.

"I...know what you mean," he says. "Let me think about it."

"You've been thinking about it all week," Bull says with fond exasperation.

"So you're saying I need to put up or shut up?" Dorian asks, smiling again.

"Pretty much," Bull says. "Hell, you play chess. Ask him for a game."

"Fuck that," Dorian says. "I can't very well cheat if it's all down in writing, can I?"

Bull laughs, his shoulders relaxing in a barely-perceptible movement that Dorian can still read just fine. "Whatever you want to talk about, then. Or don't text him at all, but for the love of god, quit dicking around about it."

"I'll work on it." He stretches back out, head on Bull's leg again, and grabs the remote off the coffee table. "Now stop talking in the middle of my movie."

Bull flicks the back of his ear, hard, and Dorian laughs.

###

Cullen is getting out of the shower when his phone buzzes, but he doesn't pay it much attention. He's been getting back in touch with a lot of people, and the phone has been going off at all hours for most of the last week. Every text and phone call hits him with an unsettling combination of gratitude and annoyance: while it's always nice to be reminded that people care about him, he wishes some of them could care a little less smotheringly.

So he finishes drying off, and squints at his face in the mirror to decide if he can skip shaving for another day, and pulls on sweatpants without hurrying, and takes some Tylenol to combat the ache in his muscles from a long day helping his father, and glares at the bottle of sleeping pills for a few minutes before taking one of those, too. Only then, sufficiently braced, does he pick up the phone and flick the screen on.

His skin goes simultaneously hot and cold when he sees who the text is from, and for a second, he can't bring himself to actually read it. He should never have texted Dorian in the first place, and now he's just set himself up to disappoint someone else.

Except that then he actually reads the message, and he feels more than a little stupid, because all it says is, _Hey yourself. You should know that playing chess with Bull is only good for knocking holes in your ego. Definitely his forte._

There's no explanation for the long silence, which was especially stark in contrast to Bull's ready responses. But then, it's not like Dorian owes him an explanation, not for this and not for anything. He's not a boyfriend, or a lover, or anything except maybe-sort-of a friend.

It's strangely freeing, actually.

Cullen thinks way too hard about his response, and re-types it a dozen or so times; the last three times, he types and deletes the exact same words every time. Then he makes a face at himself and hits send, and resolutely doesn't check his phone again that night.

###

Dorian keeps the phone in his hand after he sends his message, even though he knows it might be hours before he hears back. It's after seven in Seattle, and which makes it after ten where Cullen is: late enough that he can't reasonably expect an answer before morning.

He carries the phone around anyway and worries that his message came across as obnoxious. The joys of text-based communication, and though he loathes emoticons, he wonders if he would have been better off slapping a smiley face on the end. Just the idea makes him cringe, but he cringes harder at the thought of Cullen mis-interpreting his words.

The phone buzzes while he's washing his dishes after supper, and he almost drops the plate he's rinsing.

 _It might not be from Cullen,_ he reminds himself. He's been checking every thirty seconds for the last twenty minutes, but now that there's maybe a response, he finds himself perversely reluctant to read it. So he washes his dishes by hand instead of putting them in the dishwasher, and only when they're spotless does he pick up the phone to see his newest message.

It _is_ from Cullen, and all it says is, _I looked up forte. My dictionary says for-tay is an acceptable pronunciation._

No how-are-you, no why-haven't-you-called, no what-took-you-so-long. Dorian grins and texts back, _Your dictionary is wrong._

There's no reply that night, but the next morning, Dorian gets a text that consists of nothing except a link: <https://xkcd.com/386/>

He follows the link, grins at the comic, then texts back, _I don't get it. This seems perfectly reasonable to me._ He's again tempted to add a smiley face, but he's not going to start down that slippery slope, not even for Cullen.

Cullen's reply comes as he's eating lunch with Bull: _Exactly._

"Hey," Bull says, and Dorian looks up from his phone, startled. "Is that an actual smile? Holy shit, I thought you'd given them up for Lent or something."

"Bite me," Dorian says, and proceeds to demonstrate on his sandwich. "Lent was months ago."

"Well, I figured we were out of the country for a while," Bull says, tearing off a bit of crust to toss to the pigeons crowding around the bench, "so you were doing the make-up test or something."

"Does god do make-up tests?"

"Fuck if I know," Bull says with a shrug. "Isn't that the point of being god? You get to do whatever you want."

"I wouldn't let anyone do a make-up test," Dorian says decisively. "First time or nothing, and you've got to get every question right or suffer my wrath."

"Hellfire and damnation?"

"Of course. I would totally be the Old Testament god. He has more fun anyway."

Someone chokes nearby, and Dorian turns to look at the woman on the bench behind him. She flushes red when she meets his eyes and says, "My apologies."

He can't place her accent, something Eastern European--maybe Hungarian?--and her brown skin and black hair don't really narrow it down. She has a certain lean beauty that Dorian can recognize without feeling any particular attraction to, and she looks somewhere between scandalized and amused.

"What?" he asks her innocently, because he's in such a good mood that baiting a complete stranger sounds like an excellent idea. "You think 'love thy neighbor' is more fun than 'vengeance is mine'?"

Which is how he ends up in a spirited--some might say heated--debate about the relative merits of the god of Abraham and Isaac compared to the god of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, a conversation which then wanders into other territory, including whether the Holy Trinity means that Christians are actually polytheists, and ends up in a debate about consubstantiation versus transubstantiation. Thirty-five minutes in, Dorian has somehow found himself defending the position that Jesus was a vampire, the woman has her phone out to quote Bible verses at him, and Bull has acquired an entire flock of pigeons.

"Hey!" Dorian says, interrupting himself as he realizes exactly what Bull is feeding to his followers. "That's _my_ sandwich."

"You weren't eating it," Bull says. "Seemed a shame to let it go to waste."

And the woman starts to laugh, switching her phone off as she shoves it back in her pocket. "You delight in arguing," she accuses Dorian, but her laughter takes all the force out of the words.

"I do it so well, it would be a shame not to let others benefit from my talents."

She and Bull snort at precisely the same time, and they sound so much alike that Dorian cocks an eyebrow at them. "I'll just leave you two alone, shall I?" he asks.

Ignoring him, Bull holds out a hand to her, and she shakes it, looking bemused. "I'm Ben, but everybody calls me Bull. My obnoxious friend here is Dorian. You can always call him Sparkler when he gets too full of himself."

"My name is Cassandra," she says. "I...do not have a nickname."

"We could give you one," Dorian offers brightly, still feeling a little high.

"Ahhh...thank you," she says. "I am fine without one." She cocks her head at Dorian and asks, "You are Catholic?"

"Raised Catholic," he corrects. Figures that it still shows, years after he last set foot inside a church.

"But no longer?"

It's a bit of a personal question, but not really out of line given the conversation they just had. Which still doesn't mean he wants to give her a straight answer, so instead he presses his hand to his chest and quotes, "'My own mind is my own church.'"

He has his mouth open to identify the source of the quote when she replies without hesitation, "'The creation we behold is the real and ever-existing Word of God, in which we cannot be deceived. It proclaims His power, it demonstrates His wisdom, it manifests His goodness and beneficence.'"

Dorian's mouth is still hanging open, now for an entirely different reason, and Bull might be about to hurt himself, he's laughing so hard. After a second, Dorian manages to get his face into a slightly more intelligent expression so he can ask, "What did you say you do?"

"I am a pastor," she says.

"The hell you say."

She gives him the same look she gave him earlier, both scandalized and amused. "I try not to."

Bull is wheezing, sprawled over the bench with tears running down his face. Ignoring him, Dorian changes the subject. "Do you mind if I ask where you're from?" He can usually place accents quickly, but hers has him baffled even after forty minutes, and he's intrigued.

"Hungary, originally," she says.

He resists the urge to say something stupid like, "Really?" but it must show on his face because she adds, "My family moved frequently, though. I have lived in many countries by now."

There's a pause, then Bull asks abruptly, "So you want to go get some lunch?" Dorian hides a smile at the awkward segue. Apparently Bull, too, is intrigued, and in more than an intellectual sense.

"Did you not just finish lunch?" she asks, pointing at the remains of Dorian's sandwich in Bull's hands. Bull hesitates.

And because Bull has put up with a ridiculous amount of Dorian's shit lately, Dorian slides smoothly into the conversational gap. "I think the pigeons ate most of it, actually. There's a place down the street that's got some good stuff, if you're not in a hurry to get somewhere. My treat. Call it my penance for being a dick earlier." He smiles his second-most charming smile, his first-most being reserved for people about to shoot him or guys he's hoping to take home.

Cassandra is wearing a faint, puzzled frown, but she says, "Thank you. I do not mind paying for my own, though."

"Your call," Dorian says as he stands. "I meant it, though, if you change your mind."

He glances at his phone again before he puts it away, flicking the screen on long enough to re-read Cullen's message and smile at it like an idiot.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Bull says. "Text him back before you hurt yourself."

"Maybe it's not Cullen," Dorian says, putting the phone away.

Bull gives this the snort it deserves. "Just text him back and quit screwing around."

"Later," Dorian says, waving his hand in the air. "When I can give it the attention it deserves."

Cassandra's puzzled frown has deepened. "I hope I am not being nosy, but are you not...together?"

"What? Me and Sparkler? Hell no, he's too high maintenance for me."

"I'm high maintenance?" Dorian demands. "I'm reasonably sure I'm not the one who needs thirty minutes to get ready in the mornings."

Bull grins and runs a hand over his freshly-shaved scalp. "It takes time to look this good. And I'm reasonably sure," he imitates Dorian's tone with an obnoxious lilt, "you needed three hours to get dressed before your last date."

Cassandra is now flat-out staring at them, her lips parted in bewilderment, and Dorian realizes he may be undermining his own attempts to give Bull a hand on the romance front. "We're not together," he tells her, forcing himself to be serious. "Never have been, never will be, but we've been friends a long time. His last girlfriend said it was like having a second boyfriend, one she didn't have to sleep with."

Cassandra looks shocked, and behind her, Bull mouths, _Stop helping me._

"Did I mention I have no brain-mouth filter when I'm hungry?" Dorian adds. "How about some lunch?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Cassandra are quoting from Thomas Paine's _The Age of Reason_.
> 
> Also, if you're unfamiliar with xkcd, you should hover your mouse over the cartoon. There's always a secondary joke/commentary in the mouse text.
> 
> ETA: The Readers' Digest condensed version of transubstantiation vs consubstantiation (if you're curious): does the bread and wine used in a church service _represent_ the body and blood of Christ (consubstantiation) or _become_ the body and blood of Christ (transubstantiation)? I do not make this shit up.


	20. Minutes Into Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time as I've known it doesn't take much time to pass by me.  
> Minutes into days, turn into months turn into years, they hurry by me.
> 
> I hope that you will think of me in moments when you're happy and you're smiling.  
> That the thought will comfort you on cold and cloudy days if you are crying.
> 
> John Denver, "Around and Around"  
> ************************************  
> This should probably be three separate chapters rather than one giant one, but oh well.
> 
> I'm off to work now, anticipating some awkwardness when the first co-worker asks me, "So, what did you do over your long weekend?" Because the honest answer is, "Wrote 20,000 words of mostly-pornographic fanfic. Why? What did you do?"
> 
> Must think of a better answer....

A couple days later, Dorian comes home to a package from Amazon. Since he hasn't ordered anything recently, he's both wary and curious, but when he opens the box, the only thing in it is a book: _Snow Crash_. The packing slip has no name or address for the sender, just a short message: " _Ultima ratio regum_."

He's not familiar with the book, but he does remember that line. Two quick texts to Cullen and Bull net him two "nope, not me" replies, which leaves only one possibility, a possibility (now a near certainty) that makes Dorian smile. Varric has always landed on his feet in the past, but confirmation that he's still alive and well relieves the tiny part of Dorian that's been fretting over what happened.

It's a moderately long book, but he reads fast. When he's done, he sits on the couch, flipping idly through it and trying to figure out what made Cullen and Varric love it. Varric called it a classic, which seems a little generous to Dorian, until he glances at the copyright page and realizes that all the things he took for genre cliches probably weren't in 1992. Newly intrigued, he reads it again, and this time doesn't roll his eyes.

Then he takes a picture of the cover and texts it to Cullen, along with the words, _Everyone listens to Reason._

When he gets up the next morning, he has a reply: _Well, MOST people._ There's also another copy of the link Cullen sent before, and Dorian laughs.

###

On Friday, Bull invites him over for pizza and movies with Cassandra--now Cass, which Dorian delights in teasing Bull over whenever she's not in earshot--and it turns out her taste in movies is as far from Bull's as Dorian's is, but in a completely different direction. Where Bull doesn't like any movie that doesn't fade to black on two people kissing, and Dorian doesn't like any movie in which fewer than a dozen people get shot or blown up, Cass doesn't like any movie that ever played in a theater that could seat more than twenty people. It's almost hipster, except that she _wants_ to share, not keep them to herself like obscure is somehow synonymous with cool.

Which makes it all but impossible to agree on a movie, so they end up playing Call of Duty instead. The third time Cassandra kills him before he even knows she's there, Dorian leans around Bull to look at her and say, "Please tell me if you're ever tired of this asshole, because I will totally turn straight for you. Or at least try."

It gets him a smack on the back of the head from Bull, but Dorian grins at her shamelessly. Cassandra gives him that look of scandalized amusement he's coming to recognize, then proceeds to kill him again while he's distracted.

It's about the best evening he's had in a long time, and he thinks about trying to round it out by seeing if Rilienus is free, but then decides he's not prepared to face the inevitable teasing. Besides, he's feeling just fine without any orgasms involved, and it's not like he can't solve the problem by himself, if he changes his mind later.

He's just stretching out in bed, still feeling pleasantly buzzed, when he gets a text. Curious who it could be at this hour, Dorian gropes around on the bedside table until he can find the phone and hold it above his face.

 _Are you awake?_ Cullen. And if it's midnight in Seattle, then it's three in the morning where Cullen is. Farmers might get up early, but somehow, Dorian doesn't think "early to bed, early to rise" has anything to do with Cullen texting him in the middle of the night.

He stares at the clock for almost a minute before he decides to take a chance, calling Cullen instead of simply texting back. When Cullen picks up the phone, he's laughing, but there's a strain under it. "I guess that's a yes."

"You okay?" Dorian asks, resisting the urge to make a joke and keep the conversation superficial. Hearing Cullen's voice again is more jarring than he expected, and there's no telling what might come out of his mouth if he tries to be funny.

There's a long pause on the other end of the phone, then an even longer sigh. "No," Cullen says. Despite his answer, he sounds _less_ strained than he did a second ago. "But I will be. It was just a nightmare, it'll pass. Wasn't worth waking you up for." He clears his throat awkwardly, and when he goes on, he sounds strained again. "Sorry, I probably shouldn't have bothered you."

"It's not a bother," Dorian says. "And I wasn't asleep, anyway. I've been over at Bull's, embarrassing him in front of Cassandra. Excuse me, _Cass_." He's proud of himself for keeping his tone friendly. Just-friends kind of friendly.

He's even prouder when Cullen laughs. "Bull mentioned her. Did you really argue that Jesus was a vampire?"

"Hey, I think I defended my point quite nicely."

"Your point being that Jesus was a vampire." Cullen laughs again, quietly. "I feel like my mother's going to wash my mouth with soap just for repeating that."

"I won't tell if you don't," Dorian says. Before any awkward silences can form, he asks, "Did Bull tell you anything about the woman of his dreams?"

"Just that she didn't kill you, so she must have a lot of patience. His words, not mine!" Cullen hastens to add.

So Dorian launches into an only mildly exaggerated account of the evening, until all the strain is gone from Cullen's voice and he's laughing easily. It's harder than he would have thought, and there are at least a dozen opportunities to cross that just-friends line. He avoids all of them, though he's aware that several are near misses.

Somewhere around one o'clock by Dorian's time, Cullen says reluctantly, "I need to go, there's some stuff I promised to help my dad with."

"Oh yeah," Dorian says, "the barn shoveling. How's that going?"

"It stinks," Cullen says, completely deadpan.

Dorian lets the silence drag a bit before he says, "This is me ignoring you. In case that wasn't clear."

Cullen's laugh is still in his ear when he sets the phone down, and Dorian just lies in bed breathing for a long time, doing everything he can to ignore the effects of that laugh. After ten minutes, he gives up and jerks himself off as fast as possible, only feeling a little guilty.

Afterward, he goes into the bathroom and splashes water on his face, then stands blinking at his reflection by the soft glow of the nightlight. Without letting himself think too hard about it, he half turns, rolling his left shoulder forward so he can look in the mirror and see the snakehead on his shoulder blade. He's had the tattoo a long time, long enough that he hardly thinks about it, but on the rare occasions that he does, it always reminds him of his first boyfriend.

Livius. Twenty-two to Dorian's seventeen, and blessed with more libido and artistic talent than empathy and common sense. He was happy to teach Dorian everything he thought there was to know about how to suck dick and get fucked, with no interest in ever being on the other side of those "transactions." Dorian thought he was in love, and when Livius suggested the tattoo, Dorian agreed whole-heartedly.

It took multiple sessions and hurt like hell, but every line was proof of his devotion and the pain was welcome. He'd grown up Catholic, after all: wasn't suffering the best way to declare his love? Livius seemed to appreciate it, crooning to him while he worked in the kind of loving tones Dorian had never heard from him before, and after it was finished and healed, Livius would trace the patterns with his tongue and fingers while fucking him.

Dorian might have committed murder if Livius had asked; certainly he would have thought hard about it, and he wouldn't have hesitated at anything short of that. With the advantage of another dozen shitty relationships, Dorian knows enough now to be grateful that Livius wasn't smart enough or ambitious enough to ask for more than blowjobs and occasional beer money. At the time, though, it was a source of endless frustration that Livius wouldn't let Dorian buy things for him. Not that it stopped Dorian from doing it anyway, in secret: taking his car to be fixed, or hiring a plumber if he discovered a leak, or paying Livius's bills for him once or twice, when he thought he could get away with it.

All of which came crashing down when Dorian walked into Livius's apartment to find him balls-deep in some guy from the tattoo parlor where he worked. The only bright spot in the whole thing was that his defenses kicked in automatically, sarcasm and aloofness a knee-jerk reaction to pain. Of the three of them--Dorian, Livius, and Livius's friend--Dorian was the first to recover, and while the other two were still gathering their scattered wits, Dorian quirked an eyebrow and said, "I'd ask if you're going to be long, but I already know the answer to that question."

As break-ups go, it's probably the worst Dorian's had, if only because it was such a complete shock. He hadn't known it was possible to hate anyone more than he hated his parents.

After that, he trashed everything he had that reminded him of Livius, but there was nothing he could do about the tattoo. Getting it removed would have required him to either tell his parents about it or find a tattoo parlor that wouldn't ask questions about his age, and in the end, he'd made a virtue of necessity, calling the tattoo a reminder not to be stupid again.

Maybe if it had been tattooed on his forehead, that would have worked better. As it is, he seems to have a talent for finding men like Livius and Servis. Most of them have been fascinated by the tattoo, and plenty of them have licked or stroked or bitten it, but on the rare occasion that Dorian actually looks at it, it's always Livius he remembers.

Looking at it now, though, Livius is overshadowed by Cullen, and the memory of Cullen's mouth hot against his shoulder. It's not much better, given that his romantic relationship with Cullen isn't, and Dorian really doesn't need yet another reminder of that. Still, it's a far cry from the disaster that was his relationship with Livius, so maybe there's hope for him after all.

Dorian lays his hand gently over the tattoo, hiding it from sight except for the point of one fang. "This isn't going to be easy," he tells his reflection, and his reflection nods in glum agreement.

###

It gets easier. Not immediately, but by the time July rolls around, Dorian's starting to think he's almost got the hang of this just-friends thing. At the very least, Cullen laughs more when they talk, and Dorian's become an expert at explaining away the ever-decreasing number of odd pauses in his side of their conversations.

Bull throws a Fourth of July party, the same way he has every year since Dorian stopped drinking, and invites pretty much the entire world. That includes Mrs. Adaar and Herah, who brings her no-longer-new girlfriend, and Dorian discovers that he does, in fact, like Sera quite a bit. This is cemented when he discovers that the two coolers of soda she brought have all somehow been mixed up: the contents no longer match their cans, and how she managed that is something Dorian would pay good money to know.

All in all, Dorian passes a pleasant afternoon eating too many hot dogs and watching people do spit-takes when they pop open their soda cans. He's in a good enough mood that when Cullen calls to wish him a happy Independence Day, Dorian says, "And you can wish me a happy anniversary, too, while you're at it."

"Happy anniversary?" Cullen asks. Dorian can hear someone shouting on the other end of the line, and Cullen turns away from the phone to call, "Be there in a sec!"

The pause is long enough for Dorian to regret his earlier words, and to think strongly about making up some bullshit answer, but when Cullen comes back on the line, Dorian says as casually as possible, "Four years sober. Happy anniversary to me!"

"You stopped drinking on the Fourth of July?" Cullen asks.

"Yeah, it was all symbolic and shit." He's nervous, and he can't stop himself from continuing. "Too many English Lit classes, I guess, but it seemed like a good idea. And I guess it worked out okay, because hey, four years."

"Congratulations," Cullen says. "Or happy anniversary?"

"Either one works."

"Four years," Cullen says. "That can't have been easy."

The awkwardness in his voice kicks Dorian's babbling into high gear. "Yes, I am indeed a paragon. I've now gone four years without drinking myself stupid, something most adults manage to do without effort."

Another pause, during which Dorian presses his lips together before he can make it worse, and then Cullen asks quietly, "Why are you so hard on yourself?"

"Somebody's got to do it," Dorian says cheerfully, trying to hide the way the words have knocked him breathless. "And let's face it, facts are facts."

"I'm a thirty-nine-year-old man living in his parents' basement," Cullen says. "A soon-to-be-unemployed thirty-nine-year-old man living in his parents' basement. So I like to think that the facts aren't everything, because otherwise, I'm pathetic."

"You're not pathetic," Dorian says. "You are the absolute opposite of pathetic." There's way too much of his heart in the words, but fortunately, Cullen doesn't seem to hear it.

"Yeah, well, maybe facts need some context then, right?" In the background, someone shouts again--Dorian thinks it's the same voice as before--and Cullen makes a frustrated noise. "I gotta go. But seriously, Dorian. Happy anniversary. You're allowed to be proud of yourself."

It's a good thing Cullen signs off at that point, because Dorian really has no idea what to say.

He goes looking for Bull, because that's what he always does when he's feeling off balance, and finds him sprawled out in a deck chair while the last of the hot dogs cook on the grill beside him. He's got a Mountain Dew in one hand--at least, Dorian assumes that's what's in the Fresca can, because it's the only soda Bull drinks--and a look of supreme contentment on his face. As Dorian approaches, Bull jerks his chin at a stack of small cardboard boxes on the table beside him and says, "You'll have some competition soon."

Dorian glances at the boxes and grins. "But I'll always be your favorite sparkler." It doesn't matter that the sun is still out: he's enough of an overgrown child that he slides out one of the coated metal sticks and lights it from the grill.

"Hey!" Bull says. "Not by the food!" It's hard to take the protest seriously when he holds out his free hand for a sparkler of his own, and Dorian obligingly lights one for him.

Dorian writes his name in the air in looping cursive strokes, the sparkler leaving golden streaks across his vision, and when it's nearly burned out, he lights another one, sketching lines and curves with the afterimages while he thinks about nothing in particular.

"You doing okay?" Bull asks quietly.

"Mostly," Dorian says without looking at him. "Four years is pretty good, huh?"

"Pretty good," Bull agrees.

"Worth being proud of." He manages--barely--to make it a statement rather than a question.

Bull doesn't answer aloud, but he shifts his Mountain Dew to the hand holding the burned out stub of his sparkler so he can squeeze Dorian's elbow. His fingers are cold and damp from the can, the force of his grip almost painful, but it's steadying without being overbearing. Even after Bull drops his hand away, Dorian stays where he is, hip almost brushing the back of Bull's chair as he watches the sparkler devour itself.

It's burned itself out completely by the time he looks up and sees Cass watching him, her head cocked to one side. Jealousy stabs him out of nowhere, though he couldn't say who he's jealous of, Cass or Bull or Cullen. Whichever of them it is, Dorian knows the feeling is both unfair and pointless, so he smiles at her and steps to the side, a clear invitation for her to take his place beside Bull.

She claims the opening with a nod, but she doesn't _lay claim_ to it. He offered, and she accepted; there's nothing in her face or posture that suggests she'd planned to push him aside if he'd chosen to hold his ground.

So he swallows the last of his jealousy and taps another three sparklers out of the box: one for Cass, one for Bull, and one for himself. When all three have been lit, he lifts his like he's making a toast. "Happy Fourth!" he says, and this time, the smile comes easily.

The pensiveness comes back later, though, when he's at home getting ready for bed. It's two in the morning, and he really should be tired, but his body is humming with too much undirected energy. Instead of turning out the lights and forcing himself to sleep, he sits on the edge of the bed with his phone in his hand, scrolling idly through the texts he and Cullen have exchanged over the last few weeks.

When he scrolls back to the most recent texts, he finds a new one, only a few minutes old: _Call me when you have a sec? Not urgent._

Curious, Dorian calls. "Shouldn't you be asleep?" Cullen says when he picks up.

"Ask and you shall receive," Dorian says. "You asked me to call."

"When you had a chance," Cullen says, and he sounds uncomfortable for some unknown reason.

"If you're in the middle of something," Dorian begins.

"No, it's fine," Cullen interrupts, then blurts out, "I just wanted to apologize for being a dick, earlier. I shouldn't have jumped on you."

Dorian flops back onto his bed to frown at the ceiling in confusion. "One of us is having memory lapses, and I hate to say this, but I hope it's you. What are you talking about?"

"Last night. I shouldn't have said that, about you being hard on yourself."

Oh. Dorian's normal response is to deflect any conversation that heads into this territory, but somehow, what comes out of his mouth now is, "Don't apologize. You were right. It's just a...a bad habit I've got."

Cullen makes an "I'm listening" noise, which Dorian ignores, hoping he'll take the hint.

He doesn't. "Okay," Cullen says. "A bad habit. Can I ask what started it?"

"You've got other shit to deal with," Dorian says, a little desperately. "You don't need mine, too. Especially not old shit that doesn't even matter anymore."

"Sounds like it still matters," Cullen says neutrally. "But I'm not trying to stick my nose in your business."

"I know," Dorian says. "It just feels pretty fucking selfish to unload all my shit on you."

"Why?" Cullen asks. "I've unloaded plenty of shit on you."

"Ummm, maybe because your shit is real?" He hears Cullen suck in a breath and talks over whatever he'd planned to say. "Okay, 'real' is the wrong word. Let's go with current. Your shit is current. Mine is very old news at this point."

"That's a bullshit answer," Cullen says.

Which is how Dorian ends up talking about his parents at two-thirty in the morning, trying to explain things he's never had to explain to anyone. Bull has actually met Halward and Aquinea, faced them down over a hospital bed the one time Dorian was seriously injured, and there'd been no need to explain anything after that. Meaning Dorian has exactly zero practice at this. It's not easy to squeeze eighteen years of mutual disappointments into something coherent, something that's neither an apology nor thick with self-pity. Asking for him to make it witty at the same time is a bit more than he can handle, but Cullen doesn't seem to mind.

When he finally winds down, Cullen is quiet for a while, a silence that ratchets Dorian's anxiety higher with every passing second, until he can't stop himself from joking, "And people wonder why I drink."

"Except you don't anymore," Cullen says immediately. "Which is pretty fucking amazing, really."

The only response Dorian can think of is the one Cullen slapped him down for last night: how amazing can it be if most of the rest of the world manages to do it without trying? But as nice as it would be to hear Cullen say again that he thinks Dorian is amazing, he's not fishing for compliments. He's _not_.

"So yeah," he says instead. "Old news, and nothing you need to worry about at this point." He manages--barely--to hold back an apology; Cullen started this conversation after all.

"Actually, it's kinda nice to worry about someone else's shit for a while," Cullen says, and he sounds like he's smiling. "Makes me feel less like all I'm doing is taking."

Once again Dorian finds himself caught with too many possible responses, none of them appropriate. "Here to help," he says, which is weak but at least it's not, "Feel free to take me as often as you like."

"And I appreciate it," Cullen says. It's impossible to tell whether he's serious, and before Dorian can make up his mind, he adds, "I hate to do this to you, but I need to go."

"More barn shoveling?" Dorian asks innocently. He's not trying to prolong the conversation. Nope, not at all.

"I wish," Cullen mutters. "My dad's working on one of the tractors, and I love him dearly, but he's useless when it comes to this shit. If I don't get in there and take over, he'll put anti-freeze in the transmission or some other damn thing."

Dorian glances at the clock and does some quick math. "You're doing engine repair at six in the morning?"

"You're calling me at three in the morning?" Cullen retorts.

"Hey, it wasn't three when I called."

"Just two-fifteen." His grin is audible. "Get some sleep, I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, well, try not to drop an engine on your foot."

"Do my best," Cullen says. There's an infinitesimal pause. "G'night."

"G'night," Dorian says.

He ends the call before he says anything unforgivable. Once again he finds himself lying on his bed, eyes closed, taking deep, slow breaths to get himself back under control.

Okay, so maybe this is getting easier, but that still doesn't make it easy. This time, at least, Dorian manages to go to sleep without jerking off to memories of Cullen.

###

It continues to get easier. Dorian's heard the phrase "fake it 'til you make it" before, and always thought it was complete bullshit, but he's forced to reevaluate his position on that, because every time he pretends to be interested in nothing deeper than Cullen's friendship, the next time is a little easier. If he still sometimes--okay, more than sometimes--jerks off to fantasies involving Cullen, well, it wouldn't be the first time he's pictured someone he can't have. If there's one line Dorian's intimately familiar with, it's the line between fantasy and reality.

He's only vaguely aware of time passing. His thirtieth birthday comes and goes with hardly any fanfare, which is exactly the way Dorian likes it. Birthdays have never been a big thing for him, and he'd rather not remind Cullen of the gap in their ages. Just-friends they might be, but Dorian has to put up with enough shit about his age from Bull. It's hard to say how he'd react to the same teasing from Cullen.

As the months pass, it begins to feel less and less like he's faking it, even as he makes excuses to himself about why he's not dating, or at least calling Rilienus occasionally. He's just...not interested. Not not-interested in sex, just not interested in finding someone to have it with. Part of it is lingering embarrassment over calling Rilienus by Cullen's name, not to mention fear of a repeat performance, but that's only part of it, and Dorian really can't explain the rest, not even to himself. Friends try to hook him up from time to time, and it's not like Dorian is thinking of Cullen when he declines, and yet, he always declines.

It helps that he avoids clubs and bars anyway.

It also helps that he's in and out of the country pretty regularly. "It's impossible to start a relationship if I'm never around," he tells Bull, the one time Bull tries to hook him up with someone. "Hell, I could disappear for two months with barely time to say 'See ya whenever!' and how am I supposed to ask anyone to do that after a couple weeks of dating?"

Bull very kindly doesn't point out that he's managed just fine in the past. Which is good, because then Dorian would have to point out that part of the reason he's managed in the past is because he's always dated assholes, and he suspects most--if not all--were cheating on him while he was gone. So his extended absences weren't exactly a downside from their point of view, and Dorian is trying to upgrade to a slightly higher caliber of guy this time around. Which unfortunately means someone who'll expect to see him at regular intervals.

If his occasional disappearances bother Cullen, he never gives any sign of it, but every time Dorian picks up his phone after one of those absences, he's got the same text waiting for him: _Let me know when you're back._ And a reply is always the first text he sends, to anyone: _Back._ Cullen never asks where he went, and he never sends more than the one message, no matter how long Dorian is gone.

Cullen's retirement becomes official during one of those absences, and that's the only time Dorian comes back to two messages. There's the by-now-standard _Let me know when you're back_ text, but there's also one a week later. That one's a picture, and Dorian has to squint at it for a second before he figures out what he's seeing: the section of Cullen's DD 214 that shows his retirement date.

He texts back something congratulatory without paying much attention to the words, because most of him is in denial. Has it really been long enough for the paperwork to make its tortuous way through the system? It doesn't seem possible, but the evidence is right there, in all its bureaucratic glory.

He's still shaking his head over it when he meets Bull and Cass for dinner the next day. The third time he has to ask for a repeat on a question he missed because he was distracted, Bull says, "What's up, man? Everything okay with Cullen?"

Dorian gives him a sharp look, because Bull knows as much as Dorian does about Cullen's life, which means the question isn't "Is Cullen okay?" but instead "Is everything okay between you and Cullen?" And that's not a question people generally ask about other people's friends.

Which means Dorian isn't doing as good a job as he thought at just-friends. Shit.

Bull holds up his hands, palms out. "Hey, just asking. You keep looking at your phone."

Is he? Fuck. That he didn't even realize he was doing it is the worst part. "Sorry," he says to the air between Bull and Cass. "What was the question?"

Cass offers him the box of lo mein and asks patiently, "Would you be willing to teach one of my classes?"

"The self-defense classes?" he asks, accepting the box. "Sure, but why?"

The look he gets tells him that he missed a lot more than just the question, but she repeats herself anyway. "Because half the fight is in their heads, and nothing I teach them will help if they will not use it."

"But I've seen them use it," Dorian says. "Last week, when we came by." Freshly back from another mission, Bull had asked to be dropped at the gym where Cass taught, and Dorian had gone in with him briefly, just to say hi. That quick stop had lasted longer than he'd intended: watching Cass teach was interesting, and watching the women in her class was _fascinating_. More than one of them had a crush on her, Dorian could tell, and they were so serious in their efforts to win her approval that he'd eventually had to fake a coughing fit and go out into the hallway to laugh.

He'd left shortly after that, but not before watching Cass get tossed around by every woman in her class. As pleased as her students were with themselves, it was obvious from Dorian's standpoint that Cass was allowing them the advantage to build their confidence; at least half of them clearly needed that a lot more than they needed to be able to fling someone around.

When the students had paired off against each other, Dorian had taken himself home, leaving Bull behind. Presumably Bull and Cass went home together after that, but for once Dorian hadn't asked the personal questions on the tip of his tongue. Bull has been unusually silent on the subject of his physical relationship--or lack thereof--with Cass, but since he seems perfectly happy, Dorian has so far managed to restrain himself. Are pastors even allowed to have sex outside marriage? Catholic priests certainly aren't, but then, they're not allowed to have sex, period.

He blinks himself back to the present. "They didn't seem too shy about tossing you around," he says, shoveling lo mein from the box to his plate.

She shrugs, her expression resigned. "Because I am a woman, and they do not feel threatened."

They fucking well should, from what Dorian's seen. In an all-out fight between Bull and Cass, he honestly doesn't know where he'd put his money. Probably into a good insurance policy, because the property damage would be astronomical.

"That's stupid," he says. "You scare the shit out of me."

"Really?" she asks, flatly disbelieving. "Not that I have ever noticed."

"Because I'm the master of my emotions," he says, deadpan. Bull snorts, and Dorian jabs him with the tip of one chopstick. "Nobody asked you."

Cassandra shakes her head at them, but she's long past the point of shock or even surprise at their antics. "If you truly are afraid of me, then you are unique," she says to Dorian.

"Hey," Bull protests. "I'm afraid of you."

Dorian laughs and almost chokes on his lo mein, but when he looks up, the laugh dies. Bull's expression is completely at odds with his words, and Cass is looking back with a tiny, private smile.

"So," Dorian says, averting his eyes as he reaches for his soda. Jesus, he'd be less embarrassed if he walked in on them fucking. "People are stupid, but we knew that. You want me to come to class so your students can see that what you're teaching works on guys, too?"

"In essence," Cass says.

Dorian risks a cautious glance up and when he finds a lack of meaningful eye contact between the other two, he relaxes a little. "What about Bull? Now that's how you build some confidence, tossing him over your hip."

"Bull is...too much." Under the table, Bull kicks Dorian in the ankle, and Dorian limits himself to a smirk. Cass ignores it, something she's getting very good at. "Those who most need the lesson would be too intimidated to try."

And okay, maybe she's got a point, even if it doesn't make much sense to Dorian. A lack of confidence in his physical abilities has never been his problem, and he has to admit he can only understand it at the most academic level.

"But if you don't wish to do so-" Cass begins, and Dorian waves her off.

"No, not a problem, I'd be glad to." A sudden thought strikes him, tangentially related to their current conversation. "Hey, you heard about the latest Ranger class, right?"

The latest Ranger class, which graduated two women for the first time, and Cassandra's expression is such a strange mix of triumph and anger and regret that Dorian knows she's heard. He's also sorry he mentioned it; he'd thought she would be pleased, that she might enjoy a brief moment of gloating, but it occurs to him...

"You wanted to go, didn't you?" he asks. "When you were younger."

"Yes," she says, biting off the word. "I did. And it was not an option, so I chose a different path." She pushes away from the table and goes into the kitchen. Not stomping, but clearly not interested in anyone following.

Dorian mouths "sorry" at Bull, who shrugs one shoulder and gestures after Cassandra. Even without words, his meaning is clear: "I'm not the one who should get the apology." Dorian nods.

When Cass comes back with a glass of water, her face is calm again. Before Dorian can speak, she says, "I am glad the world has changed. I only wish that it could have changed a little sooner." She takes a slow sip of water, then sets the glass on the table very carefully. "Perhaps this was God's plan for me, that I should serve as His voice rather than His sword."

Privately, Dorian thinks this has a lot more to do with assholes and bigots than with god, but he doesn't need Bull to kick him this time. He keeps his mouth shut, as much as he hates the entire idea of "god has a plan." If god has a plan, then it sucks; Dorian could do an entire dissertation on all the ways the world is fucked up.

But then, he suspects Cassandra could, too. She served as a chaplain for years in Afghanistan and Iraq, lived in the middle of a fight that Dorian only ever stepped in and out of; often into the very heart of it, but never for more than a few weeks at a time. Not for months. Not for years.

If her faith is what's kept her standing through that, then Dorian's not going to be the one to take it away from her. If he even could.

"You'd have been a kick-ass sword," he says at last, raising his glass to her.

For a second, he thinks he's screwed up again, but then she smiles faintly and raises her glass to him in turn. "Thank you." If the sound of her swallowing is louder than it should be, nobody mentions it. "But I think I am a kick-ass voice, too. I found ways to serve."

Dorian's eyes follow her hand as it goes to the cross around her neck, and he wonders how his life would have been different if he'd had her--or someone like her--when he was sixteen, rather than the dour priest at his parents' church. It's as pointless as wondering where Cass would be if the army had gotten its head out of its ass a few decades earlier, so he picks up his chopsticks and stuffs some lo mein in his mouth before he says anything else stupid.

The conversation limps for a couple minutes after that, but by the time they're settling in front of the TV, things are mostly back to normal. It's Cassandra's night to pick the movie, so it's something arty and full of symbolism, and normally Dorian would roll his eyes loudly at every other line. Tonight, he feels drained, more interested in the company than in mocking anyone's choice of entertainment. He says almost nothing, just sits in his usual spot on the floor, his back against the couch, slouching sideways so his head is against the side of Bull's knee.

It flashes through him from nowhere, painful and overwhelming: he wants Cullen to be there with them, for it to be Cullen's knee he's leaning against. He shoves the thought away as fast as it arrives, but the ache lingers, and he presses his head harder against Bull's knee, trying to pretend the other thought never crossed his mind.

A third of the way through the movie, he feels a hand on his hair, and he twists around to see what's happening. Cass is stretched out with her head on Bull's leg, Bull's hand curled loosely around her shoulder. It was her hand that Dorian felt, a hand she jerks back when he turns.

"Sorry," she says, looking embarrassed.

"Don’t...don't worry about it," he says. "It just surprised me, that's all." He settles back in, facing forward again, and when he feels another light touch against his hair, he doesn't turn to look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the latest graduating class of U.S. Army Rangers did include two women for the first time. Ha!


	21. Can't Hurry Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need love, love  
> To ease my mind  
> I need to find, find someone to call mine  
> But mama said
> 
> You can't hurry love  
> No, you just have to wait  
> She said love don't come easy  
> It's a game of give and take
> 
> You can't hurry love  
> No, you just have to wait  
> You got to trust, give it time  
> No matter how long it takes
> 
> Lamont Dozier, Brian Holland, & Eddie Holland, "You Can't Hurry Love"

Dorian may not be perfect at just-friends, but he gets better, to the point where he hardly thinks about it anymore. With a few months' practice, he's not even actively monitoring himself: he mostly talks to Cullen the way he talks to Bull, and if he can't quite manage the same kind of adolescent jokes, Cullen doesn't seem to notice. Dorian might be getting better at this, but he knows he's not going to be able to make a joke about sucking Cullen's dick without revealing more than he should.

They text more than they talk, which makes it easier, and their actual calls are usually in the middle of the night. Those are always preceded by a text from Cullen-- _Are you awake?_ \--and Dorian always replies with a phone call rather than a text. It's rare that they actually talk about whatever's keeping Cullen awake, and Dorian always ends the calls with the same words: "Call whenever, you don't need to text first." And every time, Cullen texts him anyway.

Cullen does call him in the middle of the night once, and Dorian is pleased with himself for days after. Not because he wants Cullen to have nightmares, but because Cullen trusted him enough, was comfortable enough with him, to take him at his word. Bull calls him insufferable, but he does it with a smile, so Dorian ignores him.

Toward the end of October, Cullen texts him the news that the last of his blood tests came back negative, and the first thing Dorian feels is the simple relief he would feel if it were Bull or Cass. He knows that fear has been hanging over Cullen since they came back, and he knows how it must feel to have that threat gone.

After his initial relief, his brain tries to click over to other things, other implications, but he doesn't let it. Just friends. He can be happy for Cullen without those test results meaning anything for him personally. He can be glad that Cullen has one less thing to worry about without it stirring up other thoughts in his own head.

He's successful at ignoring all of it until he's lying in bed, but in that unguarded place between sleeping and waking, those thoughts ambush him, and all he can think about is Cullen. His brain flashes up an impressive montage of mixed fantasy and memory, a string of images that don't need to form a coherent storyline to have his dick hard in minutes.

Too tired to fight it, he finally throws back the blankets and jerks himself off, thinking about all the things he's tried not to think about over the last few months. For a little while, he doesn't care about anything except how good it feels, and when he's done, he falls asleep feeling only a little guilty.

For three days, he lies to himself that it hasn't changed anything. It wouldn't be the first time Cullen's had a starring role in his fantasies, after all, so why would it be different this time? Fantasy isn't the same as reality, and he knows that, has known that for a very long time.

It's around midnight on the third day that he realizes how badly he's fucked everything up. He's sprawled out on his couch, channel surfing in a desultory sort of way, when his phone buzzes. There's any number of people it could be, but Dorian tenses at the thought that it might be Cullen, and that momentary anxiety tells him all he needs to know.

Shit.

Nerves humming, he forces himself to pick up the phone and look. Sure enough, it's Cullen: _Are you awake?_

Fuck.

For the first time, Dorian thinks seriously about not answering. He could pretend his battery died, or that he hadn't heard the phone, or that he really was asleep. Cullen won't question whatever explanation he gives, probably won't even ask for an explanation in the first place. It'll never come up in conversation, never get used as part of a guilt trip later, and really, it's one time. Whatever woke Cullen up, he'll get over it. It's not like he needs Dorian's help.

On the other hand, he might not need it, but he is asking for it.

Bloody buggering fuck.

Dorian calls him.

"Hey," Cullen says, and he sounds tired.

"Hey," Dorian says. He's right back where he started months ago, chanting "just friends, just friends, just friends" over and over to remind himself where the line is. If he's lucky, Cullen will remain as oblivious to it now as he was then. "How's things?"

"Same shit, different day," Cullen says. He sighs. "You know, I always feel like an ass for waking you up, but I keep doing it anyway."

"I wasn't asleep," Dorian says. This part of the conversation is easy, at least, because they have some variation on it every time. "Just watching TV."

"Anything interesting?"

"Just a Top Gear episode I already saw. And even if there was something good on, you really think I'd rather watch TV than talk to you?" That's a little close to the line, but too late now. _Just friends, just friends, just friends._  "You know you can call me whenever."

"Thanks," Cullen says quietly.

Dorian can sense an incoming uncomfortable pause, and he throws out the first thing he can think of that isn't miles over the line. "Anything in particular going on?"

"I dunno," Cullen says, "I guess it's been a while since we talked in the middle of the night. I thought you might be missing it."

"Oh, of course," Dorian says with mock seriousness. "A full night's sleep would be tragic."

Cullen laughs. "Just looking out for you."

"I'm touched," Dorian says dryly. "Truly, deeply touched." He's starting to relax again, falling back into the right habits, the right pattern, so he asks the question he usually asks. "Got any plans for the weekend?"

"Yeah, actually," Cullen says, sounding embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "I've got a date."

The sound from the TV fades into the background, drowned by the rushing noise in Dorian's head. "A date?" he repeats stupidly.

"My sister set us up. We've talked a couple times, he seems like a nice guy."

"Oh," Dorian says. It comes out flat and toneless, completely wrong for just-friends, but for a long second, he can't think of any way to recover.

His gaze falls on the miniature pumpkin Bull left behind a few days ago, and that kick-starts his brain. "You're going on a date on Halloween?" he asks. His tone is pretty close to right this time, joking and friendly, and if he's luckier than he has any right to be, Cullen won't hear the weird undercurrent that's still there.

"Halloween _eve_ ," Cullen corrects. "Friday night."

Dorian knows it's his turn to say something, but the conversational ball lands at his feet and rolls away while he stares after it.

When the pause goes on too long, Cullen adds, "He's a vet. As in veterinarian, not veteran."

Dorian can picture the mystery man, like the leading man from one of Bull's stupid rom-coms: handsome goes without saying, tall and dark probably optional. Not that Dorian has ever dared ask, or even hint that he might possibly be interested in knowing what Cullen finds attractive in a guy. But tall or short, Dorian imagines someone strong, caring, with the sort of kind smile that implies its wearer is perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Actually, no, this is Cullen, so the mystery man is likely strong, caring, _and_ smart. Definitely not anyone prone to making inappropriate jokes and shitty relationship choices.

Fuck him. Dorian hates him already.

"You still there?" Cullen asks.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. Got distracted by some stupid commercial." Dorian clicks off the TV for verisimilitude and closes his eyes. "So...dinner and a movie are traditional, I believe. Personally, I've never understood why people do them in that order. Seems like it would make more sense to go see the movie and give yourself something to talk about over dinner."

Cullen chuckles. "Oddly enough, Bron agrees with you."

Yes, Dorian definitely hates him. His name even sounds like something from a rom-com.

Dorian does manage to get his shit together after that, and he's reasonably sure that, by the time they get off the phone, Cullen thinks he's all in favor of this date, rather than hoping for the painful demise of someone he's never met. Well, okay, maybe not hoping for his death. It would be acceptable if Bron suddenly discovered a calling to sit on a remote mountaintop and meditate on the mysteries of life. Without Cullen.

An hour of pacing restlessly around the house does nothing to improve Dorian's mood. He could call Bull, but he doesn't see the point, not when he knows exactly what Bull will say.

"Just friends" is now at the top of Dorian's list of least favorite phrases.

In the end, he winds up outside on his tiny back porch, staring at the thin screen of trees separating his house from the one behind him. It's cold, but the shock of it is welcome, knocking his thoughts into some semblance of order. An unwelcome order, but still order.

 _I can't do this._ He feels selfish and stupid and immature, but he can't. Maybe if the lid had stayed firmly on the box where he stuffed his feelings for Cullen, not gotten knocked aside a few days ago, he would be able to handle this latest upset. It's not like he didn't know it was coming, after all: Cullen wasn't going to be celibate the rest of his life, and that knowledge has always hovered in the back of Dorian's head. A week ago, he would have said that he'd accepted that reality and moved on. Now, though, the thought of starting over, of trying to stuff everything back into the box again, is too much. He spent the last six months doing that, and he flinches at the thought of doing it again.

The problem is, his relationship with Cullen isn't where it was six months ago. Back at the beginning, he could have simply ignored Cullen's text, and that would have been the end of it. Maybe it would have stung a little on Cullen's end, but Dorian doesn't doubt he'd have gotten over it soon enough.

Six months later, silence is no longer an option. Ghosting Cullen would be completely chicken shit, and Dorian isn't going to do it. Just thinking about it makes his stomach turn, and he bends over to rest his forehead on the railing, rolling his head back and forth to feel the wood grain dig in to his skin.

Which means he's going to have to talk about this. With Cullen. About the only thing Dorian wants to do less is ghost the man, but he doesn't have to like the answer for it to be the obvious one.

He pulls out his phone to call Cullen back, to have this out right now and rip the fucking band-aid off. There's no point in putting it off: nothing's going to change, and this is never going to be easy.

Five minutes later, when he's still staring at the screen with his thumb poised over the button to turn it on, he gives up. With a disgusted growl, he puts his phone away, telling himself he'll call tomorrow. That would be better anyway, since Cullen's probably already at work with his dad, and this is not a conversation that needs an audience, on either end.

But tomorrow. He's definitely calling tomorrow.

Or maybe the day after.

###

Cullen looks at himself in the mirror and debates changing for the third time. He feels like a sixteen-year-old girl getting ready for her first date, but so far that hasn't stopped him from changing his mind every six seconds.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It doesn't help that he's gained back all the weight he lost and then some. A lot of his clothes don't fit, and won't fit again until he loses about twenty pounds, and the whole thing makes him painfully self-conscious. If Bron is expecting sex, he's going to be disappointed, because there's no way Cullen can deal with the thought of taking off his clothes in front of anyone right now.

Not that such thoughts stopped him from imagining Dorian in the shower with him this morning, but at least in his head, he can put himself back at the right weight. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time he's jerked off to the memory of Dorian whispering, "Tell me a fantasy," though it might be the most awkward. He's going _on a date_ , and not with Dorian, because that's never been an option, and he really needs to think about anything except Dorian's mouth on his cock.

Clothes. He can think about his clothes.

The shirt he's wearing is new enough that it fits him reasonably well, but he has a couple other shirts that fit, too. Maybe the red one...?

His hand is reaching for the drawer of his dresser when someone knocks hard on the bedroom door. Really hard. Like police-raid hard.

"What?" Cullen barks, because there's only one person in his family who knocks like that.

"Time's up!" Mia sing-songs from the other side of the door. "Whatever you're wearing, it's good enough."

"I hate you," he calls back. "I just want you to know that."

An evil chuckle is all the response he gets, but he doesn't hear footsteps moving away, so he gives himself a last look in the mirror, then crosses the room in two long strides to jerk the door open.

As he'd expected, Mia was leaning against it, and she almost lands on her ass. He lets her catch herself on the door frame, giving her his best older-brother frown.

"Fuck you," she says, but she's grinning.

"Watch your mouth, young lady," he says in his best imitation of their mother. "And what are you doing here, anyway?"

"I came to stop you from dithering yourself into a panic attack," she says, only half joking. Her eyes are a little too sharp, and Cullen frowns at her.

"That was five months ago," he protests. "Can you please drop it already?" That particular embarrassment had been over what toothpaste to buy rather than what shirt to wear, which Cullen will admit is actually worse, but it was also only a few days after he got home. At least Mia had been the only witness.

"Sorry," she says, reaching out to tug his collar straight. "But I'm right, aren't I? You were dithering."

"If I cop to the dithering, can we drop the charge of having a panic attack over a date?"

"I'll see what the commonwealth's attorney says." Her hand leaves his collar and goes for his hair, but he jerks his head back before she can do anything. She sniffs. "I don't see what the problem is. It'll be a mess by the time you get there anyway."

"But not, because I can plan ahead. I'm borrowing the truck." And doesn't that make him feel like a teenager again, in the worst possible way: borrowing his father's truck to go on a date. God, he needs to finish getting his shit together and move out-

"Uh-uh," Mia says, shaking her finger in his face and startling him back to the present. "I know that look. Repeat after me-"

He tries to put his hand over her mouth, but she skips backward. "Mia-"

"'-I, Cullen Stanton Rutherford-'" She ducks his second attempt to shut her up, and since he's not actually prepared to hurt her, he waits out the remainder of the torment in long suffering silence. "-'am a _catch_.'"

"Are you done?" he asks, arms folded over his chest as he gives her the look he used to give shiny new lieutenants who needed to be reminded exactly how little they knew.

It works about as well as he would have expected.

"For now," she says cheerfully. "Unless you make that face again."

"What face?" Branson asks as he comes down the stairs, and Cullen groans.

"What is this, fucking prom night?" he demands.

"Watch your language!" Branson snaps in a pitch-perfect imitation of their mother.

Mia and Cullen exchange a look before they both burst out laughing. Branson grins at them. "So. What face?"

Mia makes an exaggerated sad face at Branson, her eyes huge and her lower lip shoved out as far as it will go. "The face that says, 'I am pathetic and no one will ever love me.'"

Cullen puts his hand over his eyes and shakes his head. "I hate you all."

"I know," Mia says. "That's why you love us."

"That doesn't even make sense," Cullen says from behind the shelter of his hand.

"It makes more sense than you moping around acting like there's a gay man anywhere in this state who wouldn't be lucky as hell to have you."

He loves his sister, he really does, but sometimes her enthusiasm is a little much. "You don't think that might be a bit of an exaggeration?"

"Of course not," she says, and he drops his hand as she begins to tick off points on her fingers. "Retired army captain. _Highly decorated_ retired army captain. Cute, when he's not making that face. Good with tools." There's an eyebrow wiggle that accompanies this, which Cullen steadfastly ignores. "Graduated top of his class at OCS. Able to charm your mother in fifteen minutes, guaranteed, even if she's a Westboro Baptist nutjob."

"It's like she's writing my personals ad," Cullen says to Branson.

"Do you like long walks on the beach?" Branson asks.

"We don't have any beaches nearby, so...who cares?"

The smirk on Mia's face warns him that something's coming, too late for him to stop it. "Greek active seeks twink-"

"Ohhhh-kay," Cullen says, grabbing for her just as his mother says behind him, "What about Twinkies?"

Branson's and Mia's eyes go wide in horror, and Cullen's pretty sure he's making exactly the same face. Fortunately, he thinks faster than either of his siblings. Smiling evilly at his sister, he says, "I'll leave that one to Mia, 'cause I've gotta go." Then he shuts his bedroom door firmly, kisses his mother on the cheek, and climbs the stairs whistling.

In the safety of the truck, he puts his head down on the steering wheel and laughs until tears run down his face. Mia will weasel her way out of explaining twinks to their mother, Cullen has no doubt, but it will be entertaining later to ask Branson how she did it. Though if Branson's smart, he'll have beat a hasty retreat too or risk finding himself in exactly the position Cullen put Mia in.

The laughter tapers off, but he doesn't move immediately. Instead, he just sits, looking out into the darkness. His motorcycle is parked to his right, and he's tempted to take it despite the cold and despite what the helmet would do to his hair. When he cleaned everything out of his apartment to move back in with his parents, the motorcycle was one of the few things he actually cared about keeping, and riding it has been one of his favorite ways to relieve stress.

Talking or texting with Dorian is about the only thing better, and he can't do that every time his brain decides to fuck with him, whatever Dorian might say to the contrary. At least things have been better, lately: he feels like his life is back under his control, and the near panic attack that hit him a few nights ago was the first in a while. It was more anxiety than panic, too, and he could have ignored it, but it was such a perfect excuse to talk to Dorian, he hadn't been able to resist.

He still feels a little guilty about that, and the conversation was stilted enough that he wonders if Dorian knew something was up. Or something else could be wrong; Cullen didn't ask, and he's cursing himself for that now, after an extra few days of near-silence from Dorian. There have been no snarky asides about anything since the last time they talked, and the only reason Cullen knows he's still in the country is because he _will_ answer direct questions. Briefly.

Okay, yeah, something's definitely wrong.

Nothing he can do about it now, but maybe when he gets home, he'll give Dorian a call, see what's up. God knows, Cullen's leaned on him often enough, it would feel good to return the favor.

And he's thinking about Dorian again. Shit.

_Focus, Rutherford. Focus on Bron._

Cullen shoves the key into the ignition a little harder than necessary, then forces himself to turn it slowly, to put the truck in gear gently, to back down the driveway carefully. By the time he's on the tiny country road that borders his parents' farm, Dorian has been successfully shoved to the back of his mind, and by the time he gets to the movie theater, he's able to give Bron a real smile as he hops out of the truck.

Times might be changing, but this is still East Jesus, Kentucky and Bron was born and raised here. There's no hug for a greeting, just a friendly nod and a smile that's maybe a little too warm.

The memory of Dorian blowing him a kiss between cell bars gets shoved away as soon as Cullen realizes he's thinking of it. Bron has to work with these people every day, and a vet no one calls is a vet who's out of business fast.

So Cullen smiles back and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "How's it going?" he asks.

"Can't complain," Bron says, and Cullen can practically hear Dorian ask, "Why not?"

Cullen coughs to cover a laugh, even as he mentally smacks himself. _Focus._ "That's good." They stand there awkwardly for a second before he adds, "How's Dennett?"

"Ornery," Bron says with a wry smile, and this time, Cullen doesn't try to cover his laugh. "About every other day he likes to forget he sold me the practice, and since he still knows about a hundred times more than me, it's not like I'm gonna tell him to take a hike."

"Sounds fun," Cullen says as they turn toward the theater.

"Oh, it is, even when I want to choke him. Besides, one minute he's telling me that kids these days don't know how good they've got it, got no dedication to their work," Bron rolls his eyes expressively, "and then I turn around and find him ripping some farmer up one side and down the other for not doing what I said, just 'cause it was new and different. He might be ornery, but he's not scared of new stuff, either."

"God, I've met people who are," Cullen says with feeling. "I always want to remind them that penicillin was new and different once."

Bron gives him a sideways glance, his shoulders shifting a little, and Cullen realizes he isn't the only one on edge. Which is kind of stupid, because he can't think of anyone who's _not_ nervous on a first date, so why would Bron be any different?

The realization helps him relax a little, but the tension comes right back when they're standing in front of the concession stand. Food is still a little weird for Cullen, and the last thing he needs is a fifty-gallon drum of popcorn with a soda to match.

"You want anything?" Bron asks, oblivious.

Not that it's really his fault. Cullen goes out of his way to hide this shit, after all, and not even Mia knows how often it still sneaks up on him. "I'm good," he says, bracing for whatever well-meaning but unwelcome "encouragement" comes next.

"You sure?" Bron asks, but there's no pressure behind the words and Cullen lets out a slow breath, forcing his hands to uncurl where they're hidden in his pockets.

"Yeah, I'm saving myself for dinner." He manages to work up a smile, and Bron smiles back.

"I hope it'll be worth the wait," Bron says. Cullen glances at him, trying to decide if Bron caught his admittedly-adolescent joke, but his face is open and friendly. No sign of a wink or smirk anywhere.

He's a little disappointed, but it's not like anyone he meets will match him perfectly, in all ways. And maybe his sense of humor is just muted by nerves and uncertainty; it's not like they know each other very well. At least he wasn't pushy about the snacks, and Cullen's more than grateful for that.

They get settled in the theater, and once the lights go down, Bron leans into him a bit. Not much, just their shoulders pressing together, but Cullen doesn't mind: he's long past his days of making out in movie theaters, and the slight contact is nice.

He's doing a good job of staying in the moment, of focusing on Bron, even congratulating himself a little--deep in the part of his mind that will admit this is an actual effort, however minor--when one of the actors on the screen drives a ridiculously expensive car out of a skyscraper's penthouse window. Cullen can practically hear Dorian laughing in delight and derision, and from that point on, Dorian's presence in the theater is almost as real to him as Bron's, no matter how hard Cullen tries to banish it.

 _Not happening,_ he reminds himself. _Way out of your league, a couple thousand miles away, and oh, yeah, not interested in anything other than being your friend. So focus._

All of which works about as well as Cullen would have expected.

It isn't until the movie is over and they're almost to the restaurant that Cullen gets Dorian back out of his head. Unfortunately, he succeeds in focusing all his attention on Bron just as they walk through the restaurant's doors. It's a nice place, smelling pleasantly of garlic and butter, but it's definitely small-town Italian: in other words, about as authentically Italian as Taco Bell is authentically Mexican. Once again, Dorian's voice is in his head, and Cullen has no trouble imagining him ordering his food in Italian, just to be a dick. The image is so clear he almost kicks Bron in the ankle, in a preemptive strike meant for Dorian.

Who is, of course, most of a continent away.

Things don't improve from there, no matter how many times Cullen reminds himself that Dorian isn't interested and wouldn't be interested even if he was nearby. It doesn't help that Bron is...well...boring. Not stupid--Mia knows better than that--but his sense of humor is mild, sarcasm seems to alarm him, and he takes almost everything Cullen says literally.

The final straw comes when Bron asks how long he was in the army.

"Twenty-one years," Cullen says, with a mix of pride and amazement. Christ, was it really that long? People who were born after he enlisted are now legally allowed to drink, and that just doesn't seem possible.

Bron's looking a little amazed, too, and not in a good way. Not in a bad way, either, just the look of confusion Cullen's seen from others in the past, the look that says, "You're insane, and I can't decide if I should be worried." People give out that look for a variety of reasons, puzzled by his willingness to accept one or more things they personally can't stomach--being shot at, following orders, hiding his sexuality, whatever--and it puts his back up every time.

He's had years to practice hiding that, though, so he just changes the subject to something less likely to annoy him, and Bron goes along with it. There's not going to be a second date, Cullen can tell already. Still, this date wasn't a disaster, and he has to admit that maybe Mia has a point about getting out of the house more. A few more dates, with a few more people, might also help him stop fixating on Dorian, and that would be nothing but good.

They don't linger over coffee, for which Cullen is grateful, and all he's thinking about as he follows Bron out of the restaurant is getting home and telling Mia that she's right in general but wrong on the specifics: yes to dating, no to Bron. He's turning sideways to step between a pair of tables, packed a little too close together, when a bit of conversation catches his ear.

Impossible to know what the woman's partner said, but clearly it wasn't what she wanted to hear, and her answer is a flat, "Oh." Distracted by trying not to trip or hit anyone in the head with an elbow, Cullen's brain catalogues her reaction automatically based on her tone: unhappy, disappointed, maybe a little angry, but trying desperately to hide it. He doesn't know either of them and so none of it matters to him, and his brain shuffles it all off to the side almost as soon as the catalogue is finished.

Except it nags at him, a bug bite he can't scratch, and it's odd enough that he pauses at the restaurant's door to look back at the woman. Nope, he definitely doesn't know her, and her face is now blandly pleasant. If he hadn't heard her tone a few seconds ago, he wouldn't know now that anything is wrong. A glance at the guy across the table from her shows that he, apparently, missed her earlier tone completely and remains oblivious.

There's nothing about them that should make that word, in that tone, stick in his mind, and he shakes his head to try to clear it. It pinged off some mostly-buried memory, probably; just one of those strange associations the brain makes sometimes, nothing logical or explainable, and the discomfort it's left behind will fade soon enough.

He shakes his head again and follows Bron back toward the theater's parking lot where they left their cars. In the narrow gap between street lights, Bron pauses, and Cullen realizes what's about to happen half a second before the kiss lands.

The last person he kissed like this was Dorian, so it's probably inevitable that the comparisons immediately start to list themselves out in his head. The scoring does not come out in Bron's favor, and it has nothing to do with skill level; Bron has nothing to be ashamed of there. But Bron kisses him cautiously, as if he's thinking hard about it, and Dorian kissed like he needed it, like every cliché Cullen can think of: like Cullen's mouth was water, food, life. Like he didn't care who might be watching.

Which isn't fair to Bron. Dorian already knew his kiss would be welcome, while Bron knows nothing of the sort, and caution isn't an unreasonable reaction. Besides, Cullen's always thought the world would be significantly less fucked up if people thought things through a little more before they did them, so he should be glad to find a guy who doesn't just leap blindly forward.

Bron steps back, breaking the kiss, and he's already shaking his head. "It was nice meeting you," he says with a faint smile.

Cullen winces. "Sorry, I just-"

"Don't worry about it," Bron says. "The movie was fun, dinner was good, what's to be sorry about?" He holds out his hand and Cullen accepts it, mostly on instinct. "Tell Mia I said hi."

"I will," Cullen says, feeling a little dazed by the kiss. Not in the way Bron wanted him to be, but by the memories it pulled up. He's tried so hard not to think about Dorian kissing him, Dorian stroking him, Dorian naked against him, and Bron just blew all of that to pieces. Oh, the memories have snuck out before, but always briefly, and always when he's alone with his hand on his dick, in that moment right before he comes when he no longer has control over anything.

Cullen takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly while he gives Bron a head start on getting to his car. When there's enough distance between them that they can plausibly avoid each other, he pushes his hands into his jacket pockets, closing his fingers around the keys as he walks toward the truck and tries not to think about Dorian.

Several things collide in Cullen's head, and he stumbles with the force of it, catching himself on the truck's hood. The metal is painfully cold under his hand, but he hardly notices.

_"I've got a date," Cullen said, because Dorian's a friend, and he'd asked about Cullen's plans, and it felt stupid not to tell him._

_"A date?" Dorian asked, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard right._

_"He seems like a nice guy," Cullen said, annoyed with himself for feeling so awkward._

_And Dorian said, "Oh."_

Exactly like the woman in the restaurant a few minutes ago.

Filtered through his own expectations and insecurities, Cullen had heard vague disinterest when Dorian said it, but when he replays the tape now, he hears something entirely different. He hears unhappiness, disappointment, maybe a little anger. Because Cullen was going on a date.

Oh.

_Ohhhh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole "driving the car out of a skyscraper" is from _Furious Seven_ because it was the first implausible movie stunt I could think of.


	22. Such a Rush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanna be with you  
> 'Cause when you're standing next to me, it's like wow  
> Ya know your kisses seem to set me free, it's like wow  
> And when we touch, it's such a rush,  
> I can't get enough
> 
> Jimmy Harry & Sandra St. Victor, "Like Wow"  
> ****************************************************************
> 
> There's a ridiculously obscure Buffy reference in this chapter. I will be in complete awe of anyone who spots it.

Dorian calls himself a variety of unflattering names as he continues to put off talking to Cullen. Every night, he reaches for his phone, and every night, he thinks about all the shit Cullen has had to deal with over the last year, and every night, he convinces himself that today's not a good day. It's an excuse he always recognizes for bullshit the following morning, but that doesn't stop him from using it anyway the very next night.

So when his phone buzzes on Friday night and Cullen's name pops up, Dorian feels ill. The chicken shit part of him, the part that's kept him quiet all week, screams, "Don't answer!" but he ignores it.

"So how was the date?" he asks cheerfully, before Cullen even has time to greet him.

There's a brief pause, as if he's caught Cullen off guard, then Cullen says, "It was all right."

He sounds cautious, and all the words Dorian's been rehearsing abandon him, leaving him to blurt out, "I don't want to be friends."

As soon as the words are out, he smacks himself in the forehead with his phone once, hard, but when he puts it back to his ear Cullen is laughing. "Can I assume there was supposed to be a 'just' in there?"

"Yes," Dorian mutters, relieved and embarrassed.

"Words not your for- _tay_?" Cullen asks, and Dorian smiles.

"Not tonight, apparently." And now comes the awkward silence Dorian was expecting after his pronouncement. Per his usual habit, he throws out words to fill it. "I don't want to be just friends, but I know my timing sucks, and I know you have more than enough to deal with, and I'm not trying to add to it, or give you something else to worry about, and I know you wanted some time to get yourself sorted out-"

"I want you," Cullen interrupts.

Everything stops. Dorian can't speak for a second, and when he does find words, they're maybe not the most tactful. "Then why the hell didn't you say something sooner?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Cullen points out.

"Because you had shit to deal with!" Dorian says, angry and elated at the same time. "And I remember what it was like when I stopped drinking, and what it was like for Bull when he got back, and then in Norfolk it was so damn obvious you were uncomfortable, I mean, fuck, you were going to _sleep on the floor_ rather than share a bed with me-"

"I did this before," Cullen interrupts.

"What?"

"I don't know if you remember, but I said something once about having a relationship explode."

"I remember," Dorian says, remembering his own stupid joke, too.

"That was after the last time I was-" He stops, starts over. "After the last time. We'd been seeing each other for about a year before I deployed, and we decided to stick with it, give the whole long-distance relationship thing a try."

"Didn't work?"

"Oh, the long-distance part worked just fine. Where it all went to shit was when I got back, and I just...couldn't deal. Neither of us could. He couldn't understand why I didn't recover in a straight line, why sometimes there'd be a bad day after a whole string of good ones, and I couldn't understand how hard it was on him, too."

"But I've been there," Dorian says quietly, and it hurts to know that Cullen didn't trust him, hurts almost enough to drown out the excitement that's expanding inside his chest. "I know recovery isn't always a steady progression."

"That's not the point. Or, it's only half the point. _You're_ only half of it, and I just couldn't deal with the thought of blowing up another relationship. Especially when I didn't even know if this was that kind of relationship."

"What kind did you think it was?" Dorian asks, embarrassed by his own self-centeredness. _It's not all about you,_ he reminds himself.

"I don't...I just...I'm not...I'm not _old_ , but I'm not young, either, and I couldn't tell whether I was Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now for you. I mean, it wasn't a pity fuck, I knew it wasn't a pity fuck, but I didn't know if there was more to it than, 'you're here, I'm here, let's have fun!' And there was just too much else going on, and I couldn't find the words to ask."

Cullen blows out a breath, loud over the phone. "I was afraid to ask, because my head was so fucked up at that point. I needed a few months to get my shit together, and I didn't know where either of us was going to be at the end of that." He stops talking, but it doesn't sound like he's done, so Dorian forces himself to wait. His patience is rewarded when Cullen goes on, "The first morning in that cabin where Varric left us? When you and Bull traded off and you went to stand guard outside?"

There's another pause, so Dorian makes an "I'm listening" noise.

"I almost lost it," Cullen says, and he's whispering. Dorian can hear how much the words are costing him. "You walked out the door, and my hindbrain freaked. It got easier to ignore with practice, but every time you were out of my sight for more than a few minutes, I thought about all the things that could go wrong and all the shit that would happen if we were captured."

"I didn't know," Dorian says, a little appalled, and even more appalled at the part of himself that likes what Cullen's saying.

"Good," Cullen says. "I didn't want you to know. But I needed a few months to get right with what happened, because I can't latch onto you like you're my good luck charm. That's just not healthy." Another pause, and when he speaks again, he sounds a little defensive. "And then these last few months, you've been giving off the friend vibe like nobody's business, and I didn't want to be that guy, creeping on somebody ten years younger than me."

Dorian wants to make a joke, but he doesn't. If Cullen can lay himself bare like that, then Dorian owes him honesty in return. "Yeah, well, I was busting my ass to give off that vibe. Maybe you worried about being too old for me, but I worried about being too young for you."

"Is that even a thing?" Cullen asks, teasingly.

"I didn't want it to be. Except that I've got a long and glorious history of fucked up relationships, and I figured you wanted a real grown-up."

"Hey," Cullen says. "Cut it out. And I'm sorry, I never meant to do that to you. I just...I didn't know where I stood with you, and for a while, there was so much other shit going on, I didn't even want to know."

"But now you do?"

Cullen laughs, and it sounds strange. "What question did you ask me when you picked up the phone?"

Dorian has to think for a second. "How was your date?"

"Yeah, that question. You want to know how my date went?"

"Sure," Dorian says warily.

"The movie was fun, and every time something blew up, I thought, 'Dorian would like this, I should tell him about it.' Then we went to dinner at a little Italian place that just opened, and I thought, 'Dorian would be a complete shit and order in Italian.' Which I was sorry to miss, by the way. And after dinner, we walked back to our cars, he kissed me while I thought about you, and then he told me to have a nice life. Politely." Cullen laughs a little. "And then I came home, disappointed my sister, and called you. _That's_ how my date went."

Dorian tries to control the shit-eating grin that's spread over his face. "While I will definitely take that as a compliment, even I know I'm not _that_ good looking."

He meant it as a joke, but Cullen answers seriously. "It didn't have anything to do with how he looked. You make me laugh, but you still know how to take shit seriously when it matters. You understand why I'd risk my life, not to mention what's left of my sanity, for a job with shit pay." He laughs again. "You play Call of Duty and read _Nausea_ in the original fucking French."

"I feel as if I'm sabotaging myself by pointing this out," Dorian says, "but given more than one date, you might find Bron could do those things, too." Maybe he should be embarrassed that his jealousy branded the guy's name into his head, except he feels too good to care right now.

"The first time I saw you," Cullen says, "I was less than a day past getting beaten and tortured. I was trying to remember my own goddamn name, and you still made me laugh."

"I don't remember you laughing."

"Smile, then. _Randle P. McMurphy_ , for fuck's sake." Cullen snorts, the same snort Dorian remembers from that first conversation, but when he goes on, he's serious again. "I want that. I want someone who can make me laugh while I'm sitting in hell, and who drops fucking literary references when he's one smart-ass comment away from getting shot. And I don't need you around so I feel safe, not anymore, but I still...I want you."

Dorian doesn't have anything to say to that for a second, relief and happiness making him feel light enough to float away. Giddy. Yeah. "You want what?" he asks, teasing again.

Cullen's voice drops lower, down into the range Dorian last heard in a cheap hotel room in Norfolk. "I want you."

Dorian's cock takes a sudden intense interest in the proceedings. "That's cheating," he complains, sliding his free hand under his leg to keep from touching himself.

"What is?" Cullen asks, voice still low enough to make Dorian shiver pleasantly.

"Using that voice."

"You don't like it?"

"Like is definitely too mild a word," Dorian says, "especially when it's been months since I last had sex."

"Has it been?" Cullen asks in a more normal tone.

"What? Months since I last had sex? Yeah." Dorian considers leaving it there, but that feels a bit too much like lying. "I've, ummm, got a friend, sometimes we screw around when we're both single..." Suddenly aware of exactly how bad this could sound, Dorian's mouth switches into frantic-babble mode. "Because I _was_ single, you-"

"Dorian," Cullen interrupts, laughing, "It's fine. Really."

"I would never cheat on you." Then his mind blanks for a second, as he realizes there's now--maybe--a relationship to cheat on. It's a limitation he's more than happy to embrace. "I would never do that to you."

"I know," Cullen says. "I trust you."

Yet another thing Cullen takes for granted that Dorian's not used to, and so he keeps talking to avoid thinking about it. "Anyway, yes. Rilienus. We...got together after I got back, and...ummmm...well, he threatened to bite my dick off if I called him by your name again, and I didn't want to risk it."

Cullen laughs in surprise. "You called someone else by my name?"

"While he was sucking my dick, yes."

"Is he still talking to you?"

"Actually, he thought it was pretty funny, but I didn't think he'd be so forgiving a second time, and I knew someone else wouldn't be forgiving at all." Dorian rolls his eyes. "So yes, it's been a few months, and the last thing I need is you teasing me with that voice."

"Who said anything about teasing?" Cullen asks innocently.

"This from the man who couldn't even tell me a fantasy without ten minutes of coaxing?" Dorian counters. "Phone sex requires you to actually talk to the other person, you know. About sex."

"I know," Cullen says. "Do you know how tempting it is to ask you what you're wearing right now?"

"Well, I'm glad you're not asking," Dorian says, "because I'd have to lie."

"Oh? Why? What _are_ you wearing?"

"A pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that might be older than you. Not exactly sexy."

"Easy to take off, though," Cullen says, and his voice is low and rough again.

Dorian's never been much for phone sex--he likes touching too much to really enjoy it--but he lets himself get pulled in by Cullen's voice. "And what are _you_ wearing?"

"A pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that's definitely older than _you_ ," Cullen says, and Dorian can hear his grin. "So you can imagine undressing me, or I can lie and say I'm naked."

A memory flashes by: Cullen sprawled out on the bed in that hotel in Norfolk, naked and hard and staring up at Dorian just before he came. Heat spreads through him, and he has to swallow before he can say, "Naked's good."

Cullen hums affirmatively. "I like you naked."

"So let's pretend we are."

"I like that plan." Cullen clears his throat. "What do you want? If I was there right now, what would you want me to do to you?"

Through his sweatpants, Dorian presses the heel of his palm against his aching dick. "I want to suck you," he whispers. "I want to suck your cock until you lose control, take you all the way in, every inch of your cock fucking into my mouth."

On the other end of the phone, Cullen's breathing picks up. Dorian gives up on restraint and slides his sweatpants down over his ass, freeing his dick. He strokes it lightly and doesn't bother to hold in his groan.

"I want to suck you until you come," he rasps out, hips rocking slightly. "I want to feel it, taste it, hear you begging me for more, and after you come, I'm going to fuck you with my fingers and suck you until you're hard again, and then you're going to fuck me through the wall."

He takes his hand off his cock long enough to dig out the hand lotion from under the bed. Fingers slick, he fists himself again, Cullen's breaths loud in his ear. "I want to fuck myself on your dick, feel you slamming into me," he says, and he's as breathless as Cullen sounds. "And right after you come? I'll bet you could last for hours before you come again."

The silence is broken only by the sound of their breaths and the obscene noises his fist makes on his cock. His throat is dry from panting, but he works up enough spit to say, as nonchalantly as possible, "Or, you know. Whatever you want to do."

Cullen huffs out a laugh. "God. I like your plan." He swallows like he's having the same problem as Dorian, mouth too dry to talk. "I was thinking about you this morning while I was in the shower, about you being here with me. Or about me being there with you. I thought about walking through your door and fucking you on the first flat surface I could find, and if I couldn't find one quick, I could bend you over the back of your sofa, or just put you up against the wall and suck your dick while I jerked myself off." He coughs once, as if he's embarrassed. "I, uhhh, might've been in the shower a little longer than usual this morning."

"You and showers," Dorian says. "What is it with you and showers?"

"I dunno," he says, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Somehow I always end up thinking about you when I'm in one."

"Always?" Dorian asks, and if his voice is less teasing and more wistful than he'd intended, so what?

"Maybe not always," Cullen says. "But definitely a lot. I think about _you_ a lot. I want...I want everything your mouth can do, I want you to kiss me and suck me and say my name like it's your favorite word and tell me stupid jokes and laugh at my stupid jokes and make smart-ass comments about stupid movie stunts. I want you to smile the way you did the first time I saw you, and the way you did when you were teasing me after I fell down that stupid hill, and the way you did in Greece when I kissed you."

He stumbles to a halt, and Dorian knows he should say something, anything, but he can't. It's too much, too fast, shoving right up to the line on words he can't deal with right now. He's barely wrapped his brain around the fact that Cullen wants him, and anything more is terrifying.

Cullen swallows, and when he speaks again, they're back on safer ground. "And god, do I want to kiss you right now."

"Just kiss me?" Dorian teases, determined to keep this light. Or at least, heavy in a different direction.

"I didn't say what I was going to kiss, did I?"

"True," Dorian says, and his hand starts moving on his cock again. "Did you want suggestions, or have you already got a plan of attack?"

"It worries me that you think of this as an attack, but sure. Suggest away." His voice is such a mix of amused and embarrassed and aroused that Dorian smiles.

"Let's stick with the classics then. I think I could spend an hour just kissing your mouth, lying there naked with you under me."

"Is now a bad time to mention the possibility of chapped lips? Because an hour's a long time to kiss someone."

Dorian turns a laugh into a disapproving tsk. "What part of 'phone sex' were you not clear on? Fantasy. Pure fantasy. And if I'm going to make shit up, then I get to include impractical shit. If you want to take over and add some bland, boring, practical reality to this, then that's fine."

"Reality doesn't have to be boring," Cullen says, and he sounds like he's suppressing a laugh of his own. "I think any reality that has you in it is guaranteed to be the opposite of boring."

Here they are again, Dorian breathless and speechless from more than lust. Heavy in the wrong way, definitely. "I'm not entirely certain that's a compliment," he says, trying not to sound strangled.

"Me, either," Cullen says, and he's definitely laughing. "But I think it mostly is. I know kissing you is never boring." His voice is going lower again, and Dorian closes his eyes to concentrate on it. "That's where it started this morning, when I was in the shower. I thought about kissing you, and then I couldn't stop. I don't think I could kiss you for an hour, not because of chapped lips but because there so many other parts of you I want to lick."

"And which parts would those be?" Dorian asks, teasing.

"Pretty much every part," Cullen says. "But I definitely spent the most time thinking about sucking your dick."

"Or me sucking yours?"

"Not...not actually. I kept thinking about sucking you, about watching your face while I did it, about what you would look like all stretched out on my bed and desperate to come. Not that I would turn down a blowjob," Cullen adds. "That just wasn't what I was thinking about this morning."

For a second, Dorian is distracted by contemplating the number of his former lovers who could say something like that and mean it--which number would be zero--then he pushes all that away and says lightly, "Tell me more."

"Tell me what you want."

Both the easiest and the hardest question anyone's ever asked him. He sticks with the simple answer. "I want you to fuck me. Hard."

"Christ, you're killing me. So if I came up to see you, I really should just walk in and bend you over the sofa?"

The scene plays itself out in Dorian's mind, Cullen fucking into him hard and fast. "Sofa, table, bed, I don't care, just so long as you fuck me." There's a silence then, and Dorian rushes to fill it. "Are you stroking your dick right now?"

"Because I could listen to you talk about this and _not_?" Cullen asks.

"Are you close?" Dorian murmurs, and Cullen groans.

"Too close."

"Not too close," Dorian says. "I want to listen to you come while I think about you fucking me, so I can pretend you're here with me, coming inside me."

Cullen's breathing is turning ragged, and he seems to have been struck speechless. Not that Dorian considers it a punishment to keep things going on his own. "I want your hands on my hips, your cock fucking me wide open while you say my name."

"Dorian," Cullen breathes, and Dorian swallows.

"Come for me," he whispers. "Let me hear you."

Cullen groans, maybe the best sound Dorian's ever heard, and he strokes himself faster, thrusting up into one fist while his other grips his phone painfully tight. If it broke right now, the only reason he would care would be because it meant he could no longer hear Cullen, whose stuttering breaths are pushing Dorian closer and closer to the edge.

"One of these days," Dorian says, still in a whisper, "I'm going to get to suck you for real. Not just lick you a bit, but suck your cock until you come, until I can taste you."

"Fuck..." Cullen sounds desperate and almost incoherent, and that's all Dorian can take. His hips rise off the bed, the muscles in his thighs clenching tight as his dick pulses in his fist. The orgasm rips through his body, leaving him dizzy and panting, but he recalls himself enough to grind out between clenched teeth, "Yes, fuck me, fuck me _hard_ ," and Cullen gives another groan, this one rising and falling in pitch. Dorian can imagine him arching up into his own fist, and the picture is enough to make his body jerk again, an aftershock almost as powerful as another orgasm.

The silence that follows stretches for almost a full minute, broken only by their breathing, before Cullen clears his throat and says thickly, "God, you're amazing."

Previous lovers have called Dorian that before--along with a variety of other compliments--and he's learned to read the hidden meanings those words can have. Sometimes it's about the speaker's ego, and the urge to display him like a trophy. Other times, it's about possession: "you're mine" in the most selfish sense, belonging to someone rather than belonging with them. And sometimes the words are a calculated trade, praise bartered for sex and whatever else Dorian will give in return.

But the awed note in Cullen's voice gives them new meaning. They're not calculating, or possessive, or vain; they're just a statement of what Cullen sees as a basic truth, and for one of the few times in his life, Dorian can't brush them off.

To hide his confusion, he grins and says, "I'm pretty sure this was a team effort."

"Go, team!" Cullen says.

Dorian laughs. "Go, team!"

Silence falls between them, but for once Dorian doesn't feel the need to break it with idle conversation. He can hear Cullen breathing, the sound gradually returning to normal, and the only change he would make right now would be to have Cullen here with him, in person.

It goes against every instinct he's learned over his life but Dorian forces himself to say, "I wish you were here." It's the complete truth, and a weapon Dorian has had turned against him too many times to count.

"I wish I was, too," Cullen says wistfully. The pause that follows is heavy with something, and Dorian tenses, bracing himself for who-knows-what.

When Cullen finally goes on, the words are the ones Dorian had hoped for without admitting that he was. "I could fly up there, you know," Cullen says carefully.

The hesitation in his voice makes Dorian rush to say, "I'd like that."

"Really? Because if you-"

" _Really_ ," Dorian says. "You have no idea how much I'd like that."

"Okay," Cullen says, and Dorian wishes he knew what to make of his tone. "I could...look at plane tickets tomorrow."

For a second, it's all too much, too fast. Not because this isn't what he wants, but because he can't believe he might actually get it. "Please," he manages. There's another pause, and this time Dorian knows what's coming: three words that scare him more than a dozen lunatics with guns. Before Cullen can go there, he adds, "Let me know what day?"

He can't deal with more than this, not right now.

Fortunately, Cullen doesn't press the issue, or even seem to notice that there was an issue, which leaves Dorian wondering if he misinterpreted the silence. After all, did he really think Cullen was prepared to say "I love you" when they've only barely moved past just-friends?

Despite his spinning thoughts, he's feeling pretty good when he falls asleep, and the next morning, he wakes up to a text from Cullen: [_https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=fFzWtI6ySsU_](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=fFzWtI6ySsU)

He clicks the link, listens to Christine Lavin sing "Don't Ever Call Your Sweetheart by His Name," and laughs so hard he can't breathe. When he's down to a few last chuckles, he texts back, _So do you prefer sweetheart or motor hips?_

There are plenty of worse ways to start the day.

###

Sixteen hours later, he's on a plane with Bull, headed someplace sandy and unpleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know what happens when I don't have internet access for eight days? I get a lot of writing done.
> 
> Oh, and while the phone sex part of this has been written for a while, this is also not the chapter that made me change the rating to E. :)


	23. Call Him Brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the pathway of the sun,  
> In the footsteps of the breeze,  
> Where the world and sky are one,  
> He shall ride the silver seas,  
> He shall cut the glittering wave.
> 
> I shall sit at home, and rock;  
> Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;  
> Brew my tea, and snip my thread;  
> Bleach the linen for my bed.  
> They will call him brave. 
> 
> Dorothy Parker, "Penelope"  
> ************************************************  
> So at some point in writing this story, it occurred to me that the person I was really torturing in all this is Cullen's mother...

Cullen tries not to worry, but it's about a hundred times harder than he thought it would be. It's not like this is the first time friends or family have gone off to get shot at; it's not even the first time Dorian's been gone. He should have this down, should be able to shove it to the back of his head and go about his day without feeling constantly on edge. There's nothing different about this mission, and last night's conversation has no impact on the odds of Dorian coming home in one piece.

No matter how much it feels like it does.

"I know you're not still moping about Bron," Mia says on the fifth day after Dorian leaves. It's late afternoon, and Cullen is perched on a stool in the barn, rubbing saddle soap into an entire stack of harnesses. None of them really need it, but it gives him something to do with his hands, and he's got the barn to himself, saving him from any impulses to snap at people for no reason.

Or it did, until Mia tracked him down.

"Don't you have kids to hover over?" he asks without looking up.

"That's what grandma's for," Mia says, pulling up another stool. "She's got them baking cookies or something, and lord knows I don't need to eat cookie dough until I bust."

From the edge of his vision, he can see her look at him expectantly, but he doesn't really want to discuss any of this with her. "Dad's out in the shed," he says, deliberately ignoring her unspoken question.

"Good for him," Mia says. "But since he's not the one I'm worried about right now, he can keep right on doing whatever he's doing."

"Mmm," Cullen says. He reaches out to swipe the rag he's holding across the saddle soap, only to frown when Mia grabs the tin away. He looks up to aim that frown at her. "I'm trying to work, here."

"No, you're not." She transfers the tin to her other hand, keeping it out of his reach, and bends a strap between her fingers. The leather is stiff, but no stiffer than it should be. "You're fidgeting."

"And...?"

"And I'm worried about you. If I pushed you into that date before you were ready-"

"It's got nothing to do with the date," Cullen says. "Really. You were right to push me, even if Bron and I didn't hit it off."

"Then what's wrong?"

Cullen hesitates, letting his gaze fall to the pile of harness in front of him as he tries to think what to tell her. It's not that he set out to hide Dorian from his family, but that's exactly what's happened. At first, it hadn't been relevant: his parents don't know all his friends, after all, and Cullen wasn't entirely sure he could trust his mother not to overwhelm Dorian with tangible expressions of her gratitude. He has no trouble imagining her sending--for example--weekly boxes of cookies for the rest of her life, and especially at the beginning, that would have just been way too awkward.

As his friendship with Dorian grew along with his attraction, he'd stayed silent because he'd been concerned she would understand more than he wanted her to. His parents are equally good at reading him, but his mother will always want to talk about it, where his father is generally content to let things lie unless and until Cullen brings them up. Not that he wants to talk to his father about Dorian, either. In fact, he doesn't want to talk to _any_ of his family about something he's still not sure he understands completely.

While it was a relief to finally be able to talk to Dorian as something other than his friend, to have that possibility suddenly open in front of them, there are still so many questions unanswered. Even in the heat of the moment, Cullen didn't miss Dorian's subtle and not-so-subtle manipulations of the conversation, pulling them away from certain subjects.

From the brief snippets Dorian has let drop over the months they've known each other, Cullen can sketch out the basics of at least some of Dorian's prior relationships, and from his halting description of his parents, Cullen can fill in a lot more. It really shouldn't be a surprise that Dorian isn't comfortable with certain kinds of intimacy, but those are exactly the kinds of intimacy Cullen wants most. Sex is easy-

"Earth to Cullen," Mia says, waving her hand in front of his face. "Come in, Cullen. Do you copy?"

"Fuck you," he says, and he's irritated enough that it's almost serious.

Mia raises her eyebrows at him. "Down, boy. You don't want to talk about it, just say so."

"I don't want to talk about it."

She hesitates, then shrugs and slides the tin of saddle soap back across the table to him. "Okay, fine. You change your mind, you know where to find me."

Cullen sighs and tosses the rag he was using onto the pile of harnesses. "Sorry, I just...don't know how to deal with something. I shouldn't've bit your head off."

"You can make it up to me by telling me what's wrong," she says with a bright smile, and Cullen shakes his head, starting to smile despite himself.

"It's stupid," he warns her. "I feel like I'm back in high school."

"Well, it'll give me practice for Jenna. Only another year to go, after all."

"God, really?" How is he old enough that his baby sister has a daughter about to enter high school?

"Really," Mia confirms with a wry smile. "Now stop changing the subject."

He doesn't even know where to start, so he goes for something basic. "I met a guy."

"In the last week?" Mia asks, surprised.

"Huh? Oh, no, months ago. We've been friends, but we realized we both want something a little more." Christ, he really does feel like he's in high school.

"In the last week?" she asks again.

"Yes, in the last week. After the date with Bron, if you're going to be a pain in the ass about it."

"So you went on a date with Bron, then came home and confessed your love to someone else? Ouch." She's holding back a laugh, so Cullen ignores the first half of her sentence.

"I dunno that, 'Hey, I'd like to be more than friends' counts as confessing my love." Though he would have, had been about to when Dorian dragged the conversation sideways.

"So you confessed your lust."

"Something like that."

"And he shot you down?" she guesses.

"Oh no, he's definitely interested."

When he doesn't go on, she makes a little hurry-up motion with one hand. "Then the problem would be...?"

"He's got some issues," Cullen says.

This gets him a snort from Mia. "You're not exactly issue-free, either, you know. I mean, his issues don't include parole officers or back child-support, right?"

"God no, nothing like that. Just a fucked up family and all the shit that goes with. When he came out to his folks, they tried to send him to some priest to 'heal' him, and it went downhill from there."

Mias grimaces. "Nice. So, okay, issues. Is he in the closet?"

Cullen can't help it: he laughs. "He's about as not-closeted as you can get, short of lisping and swishing when he walks."

"Is he nice?"

This time, Cullen hesitates. Mia frowns and opens her mouth, but she subsides when he holds up a hand. "He's not nice the way Bron is nice, if that's what you're asking."

"Is he the kind of nice you want?"

"Yeah."

"So let me recap. Nice guy, not in the closet, wants you, too. I repeat: what's the problem?"

"Did I mention he's got issues?"

"You might've said something stupidly vague like that, yeah." She picks up a harness and begins to twist one of the straps around her index finger. "Is he anyone I know?"

"Nope."

"When do we get to meet him?"

"When I figure out what the hell we're doing."

She has her entire index finger wrapped in a neat spiral of leather, and she studies it with intense concentration. "Don't you think he should get a say in that conversation?"

"Since I don't think he's ever had what I'd call a healthy relationship, that's part of the problem."

"So what?" she says. "It's still his life."

"You're a pain in the ass. You know that, right?"

"It's part of my charm."

"Charm. Huh. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

She smiles faintly but refuses to be derailed. "Do you like him?"

"Yeah," Cullen says, even though "like" is entirely inadequate. By the look she gives him, she knows exactly what's going through his head.

"You like him, he likes you. You say he's a nice guy, and I know you are." She looks back down at her fingers and begins unwinding the strap as carefully as she wound it in the first place. "I guess the question is, can you live with his issues, whatever they are?"

"I don't know," Cullen answers honestly. "That's what I've been trying to figure out."

"Fair enough," she says, laying the harness aside to grab the cloth he was using earlier. With a quick jerk, she tears the rag into two pieces, keeping one for herself and handing the other to him. "Did I tell you about Jenna's new 'boyfriend'?"

She helps him clean the rest of the leather, the conversation no deeper than whether Jenna should be allowed to buy a skirt that Mia feels is too short for a thirteen-year-old girl. Cullen's just as glad to think about something else for a little while, and Mia has always been good at drawing him out of his own head. Her imitation of a distraught, melodramatic teenager is spot on, more than good enough to have him laughing as they work.

All his worrying comes back to him in the middle of the night, though, waking him around three with something that's almost-but-not-quite an anxiety attack. Checking his phone does nothing to help, as Dorian still hasn't texted, and after twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, he gives up on sleep.

In the kitchen, he makes himself a cup of instant coffee and sits at the table to pretend to drink it while he stares at his phone. Leaving aside all Dorian's issues, Cullen realizes he has a big one of his own: he's not used to being the one left behind. The waiting is killing him, and it doesn't really matter that their conversation shouldn't have changed anything, because it has, and the mild concern he felt the last time Dorian went off on a mission has morphed into something a lot heavier.

If he and Dorian pursue this relationship, then he can look forward to this anxiety a dozen times every year as he waits for Dorian to come back, and one day, he might open his door on a pair of earnest soldiers in dress uniforms and sober faces. He could find himself receiving a flag with the thanks of a grateful nation, and he doesn't know if he can spend the rest of his life waiting for that day.

He's still sitting at the table, staring at his phone as if he can will Dorian to text him, when his mother gets up at four. She doesn't seem surprised to see him, just kisses the top of his head before making herself a cup of coffee.

"Somethin' you want to talk about?" she asks.

"Not really," he says. His own coffee has long since gone cold, but he takes another sip anyway. "Just thinking."

"'Bout anything in particular?"

He smiles into his mug, reminded of a hundred other conversations that began just like this. She won't _make_ him talk about it, but she'll give him so many opportunities that eventually he'll give in. Besides, of all the people in this house, she's maybe the only one who can give him the answers he needs. She's the only one who's had to survive being left behind, over and over and over again.

"How do you do it?" he asks.

"Do what, baby?" She's busy at the stove with skillet and butter, the cast iron pan already heating for pancakes or eggs or whatever horribly fattening and wonderfully delicious breakfast she's decided to make this morning.

"Dad was gone for two years," Cullen says.

His mother is reaching for a spatula, and her hand hesitates for a fraction of a second, so brief a pause he wouldn't have seen it if he wasn't watching for it. "He was," she agrees. Her hand continues on its way to the old coffee can stuffed full of spatulas and whisks and wooden spoons, and her fingers don't tremble as she plucks one out.

"But you let me join up anyway."

"Don't remember you givin' me much choice," she says, but she smiles over one shoulder at him.

"You didn't try," he says. "And I'm glad you didn't, but...why not? You knew what could happen."

"You wanted to join," she says. The metal spatula scrapes over the pan, spreading the butter around. "Wasn't anything I could say, that would've changed your mind."

Still holding his mug, Cullen props his elbows on the table and rests his forehead against the cool ceramic. "After...after the last time, I asked you if I should go back. And you said I should, if it was what I wanted."

"It's what your daddy told you, too."

"I know." But it's not his father's perspective he needs right now. "If I asked you the same question right now, said I was thinking about re-upping, would you be okay with that?"

"If it's what you want, baby, of course I would be."

"How?" Cullen asks, hoping she'll understand because he can't find the right words.

There's a click as she turns off the stove, and he opens his eyes just as she pulls out the chair beside him. She's brought her coffee with her, and she holds it in one hand while her other rests on his forearm. "Because you're my son, and I love you, and if that's what makes you happy, then I'll find a way to live with that."

"How?" he asks again, more desperate than ever to understand. He sets the mug down before he breaks it by squeezing too hard, and she immediately wraps her fingers around his.

"Is this about your friend?" she asks with a glance at his phone.

"Yeah," he admits, because apparently he still can't keep secrets from his mother, and isn't that embarrassing. "He's been gone a while this time, and I'm...not used to being on this side of it."

He glances up in time to catch her looking at him with amused sympathy. "It gets easier with practice," she says, patting his hand.

"Why would you want to do it more than once?"

She's quiet a while, and he waits, looking at her hand where it rests against his. Her fingers are starting to thicken at the knuckles, and age spots are spreading into something too big to be called spots. Her skin doesn't yet have that paper-thin quality he associates with the very old, but it will get there, just as her once-dark hair is now mostly grey.

At last she sighs. "You've gotta decide if it's worth it." He opens his mouth, then closes it when she shakes her head sharply. "Don't say yes just 'cause that's what you want to be true. You've gotta think about it, really think about it, and decide if you can live with whatever the Lord gives you. Might be a year, or it might be forty."

She's always been devout, and Cullen feels the same embarrassed discomfort he's felt for years, for most of his adult life. He doesn't want to belittle something that's so important to her, but he also can't take comfort in it the way she does, not after everything he's seen and done. Whatever faith he has left by now is isn't enough to keep him going, and he hasn't relied on it for years.

"I know what that look means," she says, and she's smiling a little.

There's not much he can say to that, so he just lays his other hand over top of hers, pressing those knobby fingers tightly.

"Call it luck if you want," she says, "but either way, it's not something you've got any say in. You'll get however much time you get, and you gotta decide for yourself if you can live with that."

His mouth quirks. "Mia said something like that, too. Not about this problem, but close enough."

"Lord have mercy, you mean that girl actually listens to me?" His mother sets her cup down to press her hand to her heart. "Will wonders never cease."

"We always listen to you," he says, half joking and half serious.

"Not so's I can tell," she says, but she's smiling.

"Hey, I just said we listened, not that we were smart enough to do what you said."

That makes her laugh outright. "Seeing as you're all grown up now, I don't worry 'bout it too much."

"I can screw up my life if I want?"

Her fingers twitch between his hands. "If you want," she says. "But I hope I taught you better'n that."

Which brings them right back to Dorian. "I'm trying," Cullen says. "Or trying not to, I guess. I just don't know if I can deal with the waiting."

"No shame in it if you can't," she says.

"I want to be able to."

"I know, baby, but that doesn't really matter, and talking yourself into it when you don't feel it is just about the worst thing you could do."

"I know," he says quietly. "I just never realized how hard it is to wait like this."

To his surprise, she pushes back from the table and tugs on his hands until he follows her into the living room. Once there, she turns them to face the fireplace. There's no fire there now, and it takes Cullen a minute to figure out what she wants him to look at.

For as long as he can remember, there have been three frames above the mantel, each with a cross-stitched verse. His mother has done other cross-stitch work, and the house is full of it, but these three have always and only been hung here. Cullen grew up with them--they're in the background of nearly every family picture--and they've long since retreated into the background, no more worthy of attention than the couch or the lamp. Oh, he would notice if they disappeared, but their continued presence made them invisible long before he left home.

He reads them now, forcing himself to pay attention to the words rather than skimming over verses he knows by heart. The one on the left is the oldest: he can tell by the way some of the stitches don't lie quite right, as if his mother was still learning when she made it. That she's never re-stitched it has always puzzled him, but she only smiled when he suggested it once, when he was in his late teens. And while the stitches might not always be perfect, the verse is perfectly legible: "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."

On the right side of the mantel is another Bible verse, the stitches a little smoother, a little more practiced: "He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God." It's been years since Cullen last picked up a Bible, but he can't think of a pair of verses that better summarize his mother's faith. They fit together nicely, and if they were the only ones on display here, no one would wonder about it.

The piece in the center, though, is different, a puzzle Cullen's never bothered to think about before: Robert Frost's poem "Hyla Brook." On the most superficial level, it's significantly longer than either of the two Bible verses, and its stitches are more practiced; by the last lines, every stitch is neat and precise. Beyond that, Cullen's never given it any more thought than he's given the other two.

Now, for the first time in his life, Cullen thinks about what it means that _this_ is the one that gets pride of place. As devout as his mother is, a prayer or another Bible verse would make more sense. Instead, she chose to spend hours stitching a completely secular poem, and no matter how well its description matches the little brook that runs through the woods nearby, Cullen knows he would wonder about it if he came into this room as a stranger.

He stares at the poem's last line for a while before he says, "It's a choice."

From the corner of his eye, he sees her nod. "It is," she says. "And you can always choose something different later, but if you're choosing to be with him, then you're choosing to have to wait sometimes." She smiles a little sadly. "It's harder with you, 'cause I can't just choose to leave, but I did choose to raise you to be the kind of man who'd go off to fight, even if it meant getting himself killed."

Cullen slides an arm around her shoulders, and it's as strange as it ever is that she fits so neatly into that space. In his mind, her height comes closer to ten feet than five-and-a-half. The tangible reminder that she's significantly smaller than he is always startles him.

They stand there a while, until the sound of footsteps on the stairs makes her sigh. "I need to get some breakfast started," she says. "You gonna be okay?"

"I think so," he says, and he does feel a little better.

It doesn't stop him from checking his phone regularly over the next weeks, or feeling anxious when the days continue to pass without a response, but it helps keep the anxiety down to a level he can deal with. And when Dorian does finally text him back, Cullen thinks of all the things he could say and just sticks with a simple, _I'm glad you're home._

A minute or so later, he gets back an equally simple, _Me, too,_ and he smiles.

###

Dorian calls him a few days later, in the middle of the afternoon. Up to his elbows in another engine repair, Cullen doesn't get the phone out in time, but when he sees who it was, he says to his father, "Be right back. Don't touch anything."

One corner of his father's mouth twitches. "Yes, sir."

Cullen shakes his head--the perils of being the first commissioned officer in a long line of NCOs--and steps out of the shed to call Dorian back.

"Hey," Dorian says when he answers. He sounds exhausted, drained in a way Cullen's never heard before.

"Hey," he says, resisting the urge to ask if he's okay when it's obvious the answer is no. "You just get back?"

"Yeah, got home about twenty minutes ago." He swallows, the noise audible even over the phone. "I thought maybe you weren't there, when you didn't answer."

"Had to get my fingers out of the transmission first, sorry."

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just called you out of the blue like this. If you need to get back to what you were doing, it's not a problem."

"You can call me whenever," Cullen says, deliberately parroting what Dorian has always said to him. "I like hearing your voice."

Dorian is so quiet that Cullen glances at his phone to make sure the call didn't get dropped. Just before the silence gets unbearable, Dorian says quietly, "I like hearing yours, too." He lets out a slow breath. "I needed to hear it right now."

There's no point in asking for details of the op, so Cullen sticks with, "Bad?"

"Not the worst I've ever been on," Dorian says. Then he adds, "But close," and the exhaustion is so thick in his voice that Cullen feels it in his own body.

"We could try again on me coming to see you," he says without thinking, and winces. "Or not. I don't know if that would be worse, having someone else under foot."

"Jesus," Dorian breathes. "I can't even tell you how much I want you here." There's another long breath. "But I think you're seriously under-estimating the cost of a plane ticket at this time of year, on short notice."

"Maybe I can find a deal," Cullen says. "Doesn't hurt to look."

"True," Dorian says. There's a long silence before he goes on. "I don't really have anything to say, I just wanted to hear you. I know you've got stuff to do, I'll let you get back to it."

"Hang on," Cullen says. He puts the phone on mute long enough to step back into the shed. "I'm gonna be a while. You want to get some lunch?" It's as close as he can come to ordering his father away from the tractor, since Cullen can't talk on the phone and supervise at the same time.

"Sounds good," he father says, and by the twinkle in his eye, he knows exactly what Cullen didn't say.

Once he's gone, Cullen props his ass on the side of the tractor and takes the phone off mute. "So, did I ever tell you about my sister Mia?"

Dorian laughs softly. "No, I don't think you have. Older or younger?"

He talks for almost an hour about nothing at all. Dorian doesn't say much, and Cullen's not sure he's actually listening to the words, but they've played out this interaction often enough in reverse that Cullen doesn't need anything more than to know Dorian's still on the other end of the line.

In the space between the end of one story and the beginning of the next, Dorian says, "Thank you."

It takes Cullen a second to shift gears. "Not a problem. If me rambling about my family makes you feel better, I can keep right on going."

"No offense to your family, but you could talk to me about pretty much anything and it would make me feel better." Dorian clears his throat awkwardly. "Though if you're taking requests, you could tell me what you're wearing."

By his tone, Cullen guesses the first sentence was something Dorian didn't mean to let slip, and the second was an attempt to cover it. Now definitely isn't the time to discuss Dorian's discomfort with intimacy, but it's all Cullen can do to say lightly, "Jeans covered in motor oil and an old flannel shirt of my dad's. Definitely not sexy."

"Mmmm, I'm pretty sure anything is sexy if you're wearing it." Dorian still sounds wrong, more lonely than horny. "Tell me more."

"Maybe tonight?" Cullen says.

"Okay," Dorian says, and for a man who's not actually interested in sex right now, he sounds remarkably disappointed.

This time, Cullen can't stop himself. "You know you don't have to always be 'on' with me, right? I want you for lots of reasons other than sex."

Dorian makes a strange choking noise. "I'll take your word for it." Before Cullen can decide how to answer that, he says, "But I need to go. There's fuck all to eat in this house, and if I want something besides dry cereal for dinner, I'd better hit the grocery store."

"Call me tonight?" Cullen says.

No choking noise this time, but there is a long pause before Dorian says quietly, "Okay."

After they've hung up, Cullen stares at his phone for a long time, thinking about Mia's question and his mother's words. Are Dorian's issues something he can live with? Given time, things might improve, but Cullen knows better by now than to go into a relationship expecting the other person to change. Dorian is who he is, and if he never moves past this block, will Cullen hate him for it in ten years? His mother made her peace with his father's taciturn nature, so it's certainly possible, but can Cullen be happy if Dorian never says, "I love you"?

He rubs his forehead and starts scrolling through the history of his texts with Dorian, his eyes lingering on one recurring mini-conversation: his own, _Let me know when you're back_ , and Dorian's succinct, _Back_ , every time.

Every time.

It wasn't clear at first--and Cullen hadn't wanted it to be clear--but over the course of months, it became impossible to miss that Dorian was answering as soon as he was back in possession of his phone. Which means that very nearly the first thing Dorian did on returning from every mission, usually before he was even back in the states, was let Cullen know he was all right.

Maybe he's been asking himself the wrong question. Maybe the question isn't whether he can live without hearing "I love you," but whether he can live without some sign of the affection those words are supposed to convey. And he knows he can't: even his father, ever practical and never given to using two words when a grunt will do, constantly shows his love in a dozen small ways. Cullen wants those demonstrations, in whatever form they might take.

He's looking at messages from months ago now, and the message centered on his screen is the first time he had this little exchange with Dorian: _Let me know when you're back_ , with Dorian's answer a few days later. Right from the beginning. Every time.

He can't live without those signs of affection, but he doesn't have to, does he? He only has to decide whether he can accept the signs Dorian is capable of giving, or if Cullen is going to insist that they be on his terms.

Put like that, the answer is obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can google "Hyla Brook" if you want, but I'm kind of hoping you won't. :) It will be explained in a later chapter. Though if you're already familiar with the poem, you can probably guess where this is going.


	24. No Matter How Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close no matter how far  
> Couldn't be much more from the heart  
> Forever trusting who we are  
> And nothing else matters
> 
> Never opened myself this way  
> Life is ours, we live it our way  
> All these words I don't just say  
> And nothing else matters
> 
> Trust I seek and I find in you  
> Every day for us something new  
> Open mind for a different view  
> And nothing else matters
> 
> James Hetfield and Lars Ulrich, "Nothing Else Matters"  
> ******************************************************************  
> I have caught about seven hundred stupid mistakes in this chapter: wrong character name, unannounced setting changes (look, they're in the kitchen! oh wait, when did they move to the living room?), inconsistent dialogue (it's X! it's not-X!), and descriptions so confusing even I couldn't figure out what the hell I was trying to say. If you see any I missed, please please please tell me, because this chapter has turned into an object lesson on why I shouldn't write while sick.

Dorian stretches his feet out toward the television, rolling his ankles until they stop popping, listening to Bull clatter around in the kitchen.

"You need help?" Dorian calls for the third time.

"I got it!" Bull calls back, sounding irritated. At the other end of the sofa, Cass only half succeeds in hiding a wince, her eyes jumping to Dorian as if she's preparing to dodge an attack.

Rather than snarl back at either of them, Dorian flexes his fingers and reminds himself that Bull is no happier about their last mission than he is. "Success" is sometimes a relative term, and they both know it. That doesn't mean either of them has to like it, but it's also not a free ticket to drive Cassandra crazy, especially when she's been nothing but understanding while they've both stomped and scowled around Bull's house for the better part of the day. She even kept her cool when they got into a shouting match over whether Dorian needed a haircut, which is probably a trial worthy of sainthood.

A few deep breaths, and he's mostly got his temper under control by the time Bull comes out of the kitchen with three glasses. "Pink enough for you?" Dorian teases, accepting his glass with the first real smile he's worn all day.

"Almost," Bull says with a straight face. "More red food coloring, next time."

"Right." Dorian is perpetually amused by Bull's love for all things pink. The first time he was handed a strawberry milkshake, he'd thought Bull was fucking with him, making some kind of weird joke about Dorian being gay. Ten years on, he's used to it, but it doesn't stop him from teasing whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Bull flops down in the middle of the couch, between Dorian and Cass, and reaches for the remote. He doesn't immediately turn the movie on, though. "So is Cullen coming this way?"

Dorian takes a sip of his milkshake and says, "You know, most people don't eat ice cream in November."

"I guess that's a no, then?"

Of course Bull doesn't drop it. What in the last ten years made Dorian think he would? "That's a no. Plane tickets are exactly as expensive as I thought they would be."

"That sucks."

"Yes." Dorian bites off the word, back to to being annoyed. It doesn't help that Cass is giving him a sympathetic look, the kind that makes him want to snarl at her, too. "Yes, it does. Now can we watch the movie?"

Bull pokes him in the side of the knee with three fingers. "What are the prices like for January?"

"He's looking. We'll see." Dorian leans over to hit the play button on the remote. "Movie now."

Before he can retreat, Bull grabs him and pulls him into a one-armed hug, and Dorian almost spills his milkshake all over both of them. A protest is on the tip of his tongue, but it dies as he's forcibly settled against Bull's side and despite himself, some of his tension dissipates. He doesn't even mind that the angle makes it difficult to drink his milkshake, and when Cass tugs lightly on his hair as she curls against Bull's other side, he forces himself to let go of the anger.

By the time the movie's done, he's relaxed enough that he doesn't object when Bull gets up to start another one, though normally he would protest another rom-com on general principle. Right now, it just isn't worth the effort.

About ten minutes into the new movie, Dorian's phone buzzes with a call from Cullen, and Dorian feels his shoulders knotting up again. He answers it anyway.

"Hey," he says, climbing off the couch and carrying the phone outside into Bull's tiny backyard. "How's the search going?"

"It's not," Cullen says, clearly exasperated. "So I decided to say fuck it-"

"Oh." There are so many emotions crowding in that Dorian has to fight to sort them out. Disappointment, definitely. Maybe a little annoyance, that Cullen is giving up so easily. And deep under everything else, relief, because disappointment and annoyance are a familiar part of relationships for Dorian. So many things about Cullen leave him constantly off-balance, but-

"-and just drive," Cullen finishes, and Dorian almost drops his phone.

Only a quick grab saves it from an untimely demise on the pavers, and he mentally blames the slip on cold fingers. "I'm sorry, say that again?" he asks, his voice almost squeaking.

"I could spend the next two weeks looking for plane tickets," Cullen says patiently, "or I could be there by the middle of this week. And it's cheaper, too, even adding in hotel rooms for a couple nights."

He's clearly waiting for Dorian to say something, but Dorian is speechless for one of the few times in his life. At last Cullen asks hesitantly, "Unless you don't want me to come out right now?"

"No!" Dorian says. "Or...yes, or whatever the fuck the answer is that means I want you here." Cullen is laughing, and normally that's a sound Dorian loves, but right now, he can't feel anything at all. Too many emotions have hit him too fast; he's shocked into numbness, like he's back inside watching the movie rather than participating in his own life.

"Okay then," Cullen says, like it's settled. "I can borrow my dad's truck and be on the road tomorrow morning. No way to know what the roads will be like, but I'd guess probably three days to get there?"

Dorian wraps one arm around his ribs and pretends it's the cold that's setting up these strange shivers in his chest. "You're going to drive here from Kentucky?"

"Well, I could make a stop in Florida first, if that's what you want," Cullen says with gentle sarcasm.

"You're going to drive from Kentucky to _Seattle_?"

"Unless you moved and didn't tell me, yeah, that's the plan."

"You're going to drive from Kentucky to Seattle in _November_? Hell, it's almost December. It _snows_ in the Rockies in December. You know that, right?"

"I'd heard a rumor. Look, Dorian, if me coming up is too much for you to deal with right now, that's fine, really. Just tell me."

"No, it's good," Dorian says, even though it feels like the opposite of good right now. In fact, it feels like he's standing at the epicenter of an earthquake. "I'm just worried about you. That's a long way, and I don't want you to get in a wreck because of shitty weather."

"I'll be careful," Cullen says. "And...I want to see you."

Dorian has to close his eyes as that imaginary earthquake shakes apart the numbness. There's too much of everything roaring inside his head, but he's sure of one thing. "I want to see you, too."

"Okay, then," Cullen says, as if what he's suggesting is the most natural thing in the world. "I should be there around dinnertime Tuesday."

"Call me tomorrow night?" Dorian says, though he didn't mean to. "Let me know you're all right."

"Will do," Cullen says. "Talk to you then?"

"Okay," Dorian says softly, then ends the call before anything else slips out of his mouth.

His shivering now is partially due to the cold air, but he doesn't go back inside immediately. Instead, he stares at the ground with his phone clutched in his hand for a long time, taking slow, deep breaths until his lungs ache from the stretch.

When he goes back inside, Bull takes one look at his face and lunges to his feet, almost hitting Cassandra with an elbow on the way by. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dorian says. His mouth feels strange, like its connection to his brain is mis-wired. "Cullen couldn't find a plane ticket, so he's driving. Driving here."

Cass beams at him, a happy smile that fades to a frown as she studies his face. Bull, on the other hand, just nods like it's all starting to make sense to him. "When's he coming?"

"Leaving home tomorrow, he said."

"We should do dinner or something on Thursday," Bull says, and Dorian takes another careful breath, grateful for his calm.

"But this is wonderful!" Cass says, looking back and forth between the two of them in confusion. "Why-" She cuts herself off when Bull takes his seat again, pressing his hand against her leg. The look on her face is nearly mutinous, but she says nothing else as Dorian folds himself back down onto his end of the sofa.

"Dinner Thursday would be good," Dorian says. He almost sounds normal, too, even if his brain is in need of a hard reboot.

###

The following morning, he has absolutely no memory of the movie or of anything Cass or Bull said to him after that, but by the time Cullen calls him in the evening, Dorian is at least doing a better job of pretending he's not so far outside his comfort zone he might as well be in a different hemisphere. Cullen sounds a little tired, but not so tired that he doesn't take Dorian's unsubtle hints about phone sex, even if he is laughing when he does it. It's difficult to mind the laughter, because as soon as he stops laughing, he pitches his voice low and describes--in loving detail--giving Dorian a blow job. It might be the quickest Dorian's come since he was a teenager.

"You're a fast learner," he says, when his mouth is capable of producing coherent words.

Cullen laughs, and the sound is almost as hot as his earlier narration. "I've been thinking about it for hours, so I'm glad to know I didn't suffer the embarrassment of having a hard-on all day for nothing."

"Definitely not for nothing."

"Good," Cullen says. "I'll keep that in mind for tomorrow."

He calls the next night, too, and he apparently did keep it in mind, because listening to him is almost enough to set the blankets on fire. They're back on familiar territory now, and it's easy for Dorian to pretend Cullen isn't in the middle of driving across the country to see him.

Or it's easy until Cullen says, "I should be there the middle of the afternoon tomorrow," and Dorian's brain goes into another tailspin.

At least Cullen is tired enough that it's not difficult to get him off the phone, and then there's no one around to see Dorian pacing the house into the small hours of the morning. He does get a few hours of sleep, but he's awake way too early, and by eleven, he's a hot mess.

The thought of staring at his living room walls for another four or five hours is too much for him to take, so he goes for a long walk, letting the minutes slip into hours as he crosses and re-crosses the trails in the park by his house until his brain has finally shut down and he can turn back toward home feeling almost calm.

As he's standing on his front step digging out his keys, Mrs. Adaar appears to shatter that calm. She looks agitated but triumphant, towing an amused Herah in her wake. "I sent him away this time, Dorian," she says when she's in easy speaking distance.

"Who?" he asks, but his stomach tightens. There really aren't any good possibilities here.

"It wasn't the same man as last time," Mrs. Adaar says, her lips pursed in disapproval. "He was quite insistent that he knew you, but I didn't recognize him. He had a _motorcycle_ ," she adds, much the way she might have said, "He was selling drugs down at the elementary school."

Dorian almost smiles, even though his stomach is in the process of imploding. Not Cullen, please let it not be Cullen. He was supposed to be driving, not riding, right? He can't have been crazy enough to drive a motorcycle across the entire fucking country, so it has to be one of Dorian's crazy exes, and he never thought he'd see the day he found himself hoping for that. "I appreciate it, Mrs. A," he says. "But you really don't need to worry about me, and you could get hurt, confronting people like that."

Herah gives him a lazy, two-fingered wave. "Don't sweat it, I didn't let her come out here by herself."

Which isn't actually a bad response. Herah might not be Cass, but she's intimidating as hell--all six feet of her, with the dense muscles of a woman who's rowed heavy-weight crew for years--and it makes Dorian feel better than imagining Mrs. Adaar facing down one of his crazy ex-boyfriends, either today or in the future. None of them were physically abusive, but plenty of them were unpredictable and all of them were assholes.

"Well, just be careful," he tells Mrs. Adaar, because she looks so proud of herself, and maybe it wasn't Cullen after all.

"I will be." She smiles at him, and without conscious thought, he leans down so she can kiss his cheek.

After she's gone back to her house, Dorian goes inside and throws himself down on the couch with one arm over his face to contemplate the disaster that is his life. He should call Cullen, he knows he should, but all he wants is to pretend for another five minutes that it was some idiot ex-boyfriend who came by while he was gone. Bloody buggering fuck. Of all the first impressions he wanted Cullen to get of his life, Mrs. Adaar chasing him away because she thought he was one of Dorian's crazy exes is very nearly the bottom of the list.

And what the hell happened to "middle of the afternoon," anyway? He'd be pissed at Cullen for showing up four hours early, except that he's too busy being pissed at himself for all the shitty choices he's made in his life. Maybe Cullen is already on his way back home, finally aware of what it means to get involved in the wreck that is a relationship with Dorian.

Or maybe not, because there's the distinctive sound of a motorcycle coming down the street, and Dorian freezes the way he's never frozen in his life: not on an op, not with his parents, not with any of his exes. The connection between his brain and his body was severed when he wasn't looking, and now he's paralyzed, unable to even blink.

The motorcycle stops outside his house and the engine cuts off, but the paralysis doesn't. His heart is thudding in his ears, too fast to count the beats; he knows he should get up, and he can't, even as the minutes stretch out.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes, and that finally snaps him out of it. Cullen's name flashes up on the screen--no surprise--and Dorian has to swallow down nausea as he accepts the call.

"Hey," he says, fighting to keep his tone close to normal.

"Hey," Cullen says, and he sounds awkward. "So I know I'm early, and this is kind of embarrassing, but...can you come outside and call off your neighbor?"

Dorian closes his eyes, no longer able to lie to himself about who Mrs. Adaar chased away earlier.

Cullen keeps talking, apparently unaware that there's anything odd about Dorian's silence. "I'm sure she's a really nice lady, but she seems to think I'm some kind of criminal, and if you don't get out here soon, I think her granddaughter's going to beat me up."

"Well, make a heroic last stand while I call in the cavalry," Dorian says, trying to joke about something he doesn't feel at all like joking about.

"So long as they show up quick," Cullen says, ending the call.

Dorian tosses his phone onto the coffee table and scrubs his hands over his face, hard. _Get it together, Pavus._ This is what he wants, right? Cullen here, to see him.

And Cullen didn't run, despite the un-welcoming committee that greeted him, so that has to be a good sign. Maybe he hasn't put together exactly what happened? Maybe he just thinks Dorian's neighbor is a little paranoid, without understanding that she has reason to be.

 _Time's up,_ he tells himself and climbs to his feet.

His heart is nearly choking him as he lets himself out the front door and looks toward the driveway. The bike, Mrs. Adaar, Herah: they're all background to Cullen, standing there in a battered leather jacket, one hand on his phone and the other stuffed deep in the pocket of his jeans. When he sees Dorian, he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Now Dorian's heart really is choking him, too many impulses firing at once. He can't breathe, can't even take another step forward until Cullen's smile falters into uncertainty. That's the last thing Dorian wants, and he finds a smile somewhere in the confusion in his head, a smile that gets wider as Cullen's smile turns blinding and Dorian remembers all the reasons he wanted Cullen here.

He doesn't run forward, mostly because he's not sure he wouldn't trip over something if he tried. The plan is to kiss Cullen senseless the instant he's close enough, but somehow, that isn't what happens. Instead, his arms slide under Cullen's jacket and around his chest, while his face presses itself into the side of Cullen's neck, and that's so perfect he abandons his original plan. By the way Cullen hugs him back, arms too tight and cheek hard against the side of his head, he's not objecting.

"Dorian?" someone asks. A woman's voice. Herah.

"Yeah?" he asks without moving.

"Friend of yours?" She sounds amused.

"Yeah."

"I'm so sorry," Mrs. Adaar says, and she doesn't sound nearly as amused as her granddaughter.

Everything else slams back to the front of Dorian's head, and he pulls himself free of Cullen's embrace, a lot less comfortable with it now. Please let Cullen be oblivious to all the things Mrs. Adaar unintentionally revealed about Dorian's life.

"It's all right," Dorian says, giving her a smile that's several hundred watts dimmer than the one he gave Cullen a few seconds ago. "Really."

"Oh, but I should have invited you in," she says to Cullen, agitated. "Not sent you away like that."

"It's okay," Cullen says. "You're probably better off not inviting strange men into your house, anyway."

"I feel simply terrible," she says. "You must come to dinner tonight, to let me make it up to you."

Herah's amused glance jumps from Cullen to Dorian before she says, "Tomorrow night would probably be better, Gran."

If Mrs. Adaar catches the implication in Herah's smirk, it's not evident on her face. "Tomorrow night, then?"

"That sounds great, Mrs. A," Dorian says. He's not sure if he wants to prolong this conversation to avoid the questions Cullen is almost certainly going to ask as soon as they're alone, or hurry it along so he can get Cullen inside and seriously distracted before he has time to think too hard about any of this.

"Do let Benjamin know he's welcome," Mrs. Adaar says. Herah links her arm through her grandmother's to steer her back across the street, but for someone so tiny, Mrs. Adaar is surprisingly hard to move when she doesn't want to be. "And he can bring his young lady, too."

"I'll tell him," Dorian says.

That seems to satisfy her, and she lets Herah pull her away.

"Well," Dorian says when he's alone with Cullen. "Want to come in?"

"Sure," Cullen says, pulling a small pack from one of the motorcycle's saddlebags. "Sorry about this, by the way. It wasn't quite how I meant it to go. I just couldn't sleep last night, so I figured I might as well keep going."

"Forget it," Dorian says, praying fervently that he will. _Yes, please, forget all about my amazing talent for picking guys who are such assholes that I need to be protected from them by the little old lady across the street._

In the spirit of that, as soon as he's got Cullen's bike in the garage and Cullen in the house, Dorian presses him up against the door and kisses him the way he'd originally planned. Cullen kisses him back but not for long, ducking away after a few seconds. "Hey," he says, threading the fingers of his free hand through Dorian's hair. "I didn't drive across most of the country for a booty call."

Stung, Dorian tries to pull away and can't, Cullen's hand firm on the back of his neck. "I didn't mean it like that," Cullen says apologetically. "Sorry. It's just that I'm pretty much completely wiped out."

"Driving from Kentucky to Washington in December?" Dorian asks, hoping to cover his confusion with sarcasm. "I wonder why that might be tiring."

"Riding," Cullen corrects. "On a motorcycle."

"And a nice motorcycle it is, too," Dorian teases. "I have some ideas about that."

Cullen snorts. "You and everyone else who's never tried to give a blowjob to someone on the back of a motorcycle." He's smiling though, and Dorian can't help but smile back.

"I'll try not to take that as a challenge," he says, then gets a pleasant jolt when Cullen's smile turns wicked. "Or maybe I will."

"So long as you do it tomorrow at the earliest."

"I think I can manage that," Dorian says. He rests their foreheads together and closes his eyes, letting his awareness of Cullen overwhelm everything else for a second.

"I really am sorry I upset your neighbor," Cullen says after a while. "I didn't think there'd be a problem if I was here early."

"It's fine," Dorian says, because maybe it is, after all. Cullen seems amused rather than upset. "Honestly, it never occurred to me that Mrs. Adaar would mistake you for a criminal. She really is the sweetest person you'll ever meet."

"If you say so," Cullen says. "She seemed pretty fierce to me." His fingers move on the back of Dorian's neck, rubbing out the tension. "If I'd known that was going to happen, I would have called when I got off the interstate, but all I could think about was getting off that damn bike."

"About that," Dorian says. "I thought you were driving, not riding."

"Yeah, well, my dad's truck was acting up, and I didn't really want to get stranded somewhere in Minnesota, but I also didn't really want to wait around to fuck with it." He sighs, his breath moving over Dorian's cheeks. "And you seemed like you were worrying about it, so I figured you'd worry more if you knew I was on the bike."

"I can't imagine why I would worry about you riding a motorcycle for three days in the middle of winter."

"Hey, technically it's still fall right now."

Dorian can't help but laugh. "I still can't believe you were willing to do this."

"Oh, yeah, I definitely needed my arm twisted. Absolutely nothing in this for me." His hand moves from Dorian's neck to his face, and he tilts their heads for another brief kiss. "Now can I come all the way in, or is standing in the hallway all afternoon my punishment for being early?"

"I can think of more fun punishments," Dorian says as he leads the way into the living room.

"If it's fun, is it really punishment?" Cullen asks. Before Dorian can answer, there's the sound of a body hitting the couch and a groan of such intense satisfaction that it makes him shiver.

He turns to see Cullen sitting in the middle of the sofa, arms stretched out along the back and head sagging. "I'm never getting up again," Cullen says. "And I'm definitely not getting back on that bike."

"That's a shame," Dorian says, "since I was planning on taking up your challenge tomorrow, and that pretty much requires you and the bike together."

Cullen grins without opening his eyes. "Okay, if there's not a blowjob involved, I'm not getting back on that bike." He stretches his arms wider and shoves his bag to one side with his foot. "Actually, if there's not a blowjob _and_ you involved."

Sex has ceased to be a way to distract Cullen and has instead become its own motivation. Dorian steps around the coffee table to sit in Cullen's lap facing him, but when he leans forward for a kiss, Cullen catches his face in both hands.

"Hey," he says softly, his thumbs smoothing over Dorian's mustache. "I know this is about as unromantic as it gets, but I'm completely wasted. Traffic was shit, the weather was shit, and I kept pushing because I wanted to see you so much it was worth riding in the dark and the rain. But right now, I can barely keep my eyes open. Give me twenty minutes for a power nap?"

Dorian feels completely off-balance again, and he hates it. What Cullen's saying makes sense, and there's nothing in his posture to imply he's lying, but it all runs counter to everything Dorian knows about relationships. "I don't want to have sex right now" never actually means "I don't want to have sex right now." The only person Dorian would trust to make a statement like that is Bull, and he doesn't sleep with Bull except in the most literal sense.

"You want something to drink?" he asks, because he can't sort out the mess in his head right now.

"Water would be good," Cullen says. His head drops against the back of the couch. "Or iced tea, if you've got it."

"I can do water, but iced tea's going to take me a little while."

"Water, then," Cullen says.

It takes Dorian less than two minutes to fill a glass, but by the time he gets back from the kitchen, Cullen is already asleep, lying on one side with his feet still on the floor.

Dorian sets the glass on the coffee table and kneels to pull off Cullen's boots before lifting his legs onto the sofa to spare his back some pain later. There's no way this is only going to be a twenty minute power nap, but Dorian certainly isn't going to wake him.

Instead, he sits on the floor with his back against the coffee table and studies Cullen while he sleeps. He's regained the weight he lost, rounding out his face into soft curves, and his cheeks are sporting a couple days' worth of stubble. One of his arms is tucked under his head, pulling his jacket and shirt up enough to reveal a pale stripe of skin above the waistband of his jeans. The other hand is splayed against his stomach, fingers twitching idly.

As tempting as it is to touch him, Dorian just sits and watches, almost in a trance, until Cullen's eyes open.

"Why're you over there?" Cullen asks sleepily.

"Didn't want to wake you," Dorian says.

"Oh." Cullen digests this with the careful deliberation of the very drunk or very tired. "I'm awake now." He pats the couch cushions in front of himself in clear invitation. "You should come here."

So Dorian does, stretching out on the sofa, Cullen's body warm against his back. Cullen makes a pleased noise and goes back to sleep, but Dorian lies awake for a long time.


	25. What I Like About You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's what I like about you  
> You hold me tight  
> Tell me I'm the only one  
> Wanna come over tonight?  
> Yeah
> 
> Keep on whispering in my ear  
> Tell me all the things that I wanna hear  
> 'Cause it's true, that's what I like about you
> 
> Wally Palmar, Mike Skill, and Jimmy Marinos, "What I Like About You"  
> ********************************  
>  _This_ is the chapter that made me change the rating. A very early draft of the first third of the sex scene in here (it was originally supposed to be in chapter 17) has been written for a while, though it needed a lot of continuity editing by the time the story caught up. And, you know, I had to actually _finish_ it. :)
> 
> In any case, enjoy, and I hope it was worth the wait!

Cullen wakes to the smell of pizza, feeling better than he has in two days. He's a little surprised at what a difference a short nap could make, until his eyes focus on the clock and he realizes that his short nap was nothing of the sort.

"Shit!" He sits up fast enough to make his head spin, and tries to get his bearings. His boots are under the coffee table, and there was a blanket draped over him before he tossed it aside. A glass of iced tea is on the table in front of him, but there's no sign of the pizza he can smell, or of Dorian.

Still feeling a little light headed, he picks up the glass and takes a sip. Unsweetened, but not bad for all that.

"That's better," Dorian says, and Cullen looks up to find him standing in the kitchen doorway with a pair of pizza boxes balanced in one hand, plates and paper towels in the other. "It's nice to see you vertical."

"I'm so sorry." Cullen glances at the clock again, and winces. "Really sorry."

"For what? Sleeping when you were tired?" He sets everything down on the coffee table before leaning in for a quick kiss. There's no attempt to turn it into something more or longer; it's just a brief peck, the kind of hello/good-bye kiss someone gives when they have no doubts that the gesture will be welcome. It knocks Cullen breathless for a second, because that's exactly the kind of casual intimacy he wants.

"I didn't know what kind of pizza you liked," Dorian says, sitting on the couch so their legs touch all down one side. "Hope one of these will work."

"I'm good with whatever," Cullen says absently. His thoughts are going in too many directions, thrown by Dorian's kiss and his own lingering issues with food. Pizza would _not_ have been his first choice for dinner, not when he's trying to lose weight, but he can't very well say anything now.

Dorian, unfortunately, is a little too observant, even if he doesn't understand the real source of the problem. "Sorry, I just sort of assumed...do you like pizza?"

"Pizza's good." He opens the box closest to him and finds a few vegetables mixed in with the cheese and carbs. At least that has some-- _some_ \--redeeming nutritional value, so he picks up a slice and begins to eat it slowly. If he's careful, maybe he can get away with only eating one piece.

Dorian is still watching him, brow furrowed in concern. "Are you sure? Because I can get us something else, it's not a problem."

"No really," Cullen insists, taking another bite for emphasis. "This is good."

He can actually see understanding break over Dorian's face. "You think you're fat."

"I am fat," Cullen points out, feeling his stomach clench. He's had this conversation often enough with Mia to know how it will go, and he really doesn't want to have it with Dorian.

"Fat?" Dorian is staring at him, his own slice of pizza forgotten in his hand. "By what definition?"

"Overweight, then. Come on, don't patronize me, I know I've put on a bunch of weight."

This gets him a slow, incredulous blink. "Yes, which means you no longer look like you should be holding a sign that says, 'Your five cents a day could help this man feed his family.'"

Cullen can't stop the laugh. At least if he has to have this conversation yet again, Dorian is funnier than Mia. "It's more weight than that, and we both know it."

Dorian is still looking at him as if he's lost his mind. "Which is one of the side effects of starvation." He squints at Cullen, sizing him up. "You're what? Twenty, twenty-five pounds over what the damn charts say you 'should' be? Sounds pretty text-book to me, so you know you'll lose it again once your body figures out that everything's okay."

"I...yes...but..." He doesn't even know how to answer, because suddenly this isn't a repeat of the conversation he's had with Mia half a dozen times. That conversation involved a lot more "I can't tell the difference, so you need to get over it." Which doesn't help at all, not when Cullen has a mirror and a closet full of clothes that don't fit.

"And so what?" Dorian goes on, before Cullen can dig up a reasonable response. "So what if you've gained some weight, and you _never_ lose it? You could put on a hundred pounds and I'd still think you were hot as fuck."

Now Cullen can't even come up with words; all he can do is stare. He hates the way he looks, and he can't bring himself to believe Dorian isn't bullshitting him.

Dorian sets aside his pizza and scrubs his fingers clean on the leg of his jeans. Then he takes Cullen's slice away so he can link their fingers together. "I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have said anything. I know this isn't easy, and you don't need me making it worse by picking at it."

"It's okay," Cullen says, because it is. He'd much rather hear an honest "I noticed and I don't care" than any number of disingenuous "Weight gain? What weight gain?" pep talks. He's not entirely sure he _believes_ Dorian, but he believes that Dorian believes it, and that's close enough for now.

He still only eats one slice of pizza, but he feels a lot less self-conscious about it, and Dorian doesn't say anything, though he has to have noticed. For his part, Dorian inhales five or six slices, making a production out of licking his fingers clean after each one. He doesn't look at Cullen while he does it, but then, he doesn't need to.

"You're a tease," Cullen accuses finally, when he finds himself shifting his weight to relieve some of the pressure on his dick.

Dorian gives him a look of wide-eyed innocence, sucking hard on two fingers at once before pulling them out with a wet pop. "Me? I'm just trying to make sure you don't get bored."

"Boredom is definitely not the problem."

"Oh?" Dorian asks, still feigning innocence. "Then what is?"

Cullen's never been much for dirty talk, but after the last couple of days, he likes to think he's getting the hang of it. Even as his cheeks heat, he locks eyes with Dorian and says in a low voice, "The problem is that I'm so hard I can't see straight."

"Quite a problem," Dorian murmurs. He's leaning closer, his mouth only inches from Cullen's.

"The _problem_ ," Cullen says, "is that all I want to do right now is fuck you until the only word you can say is my name."

Dorian's eyes squeeze closed. "You're blowing all my good intentions to hell. You know that, right?"

"Not really what I want to blow," Cullen says, cupping the back of Dorian's head to pull him into a kiss. This time, it's not a quick peck: Cullen licks across his lips and then between them, shivering when Dorian groans.

Without warning, Dorian is in his lap again, pressing into him everywhere: mouth, chest, hips, thighs. He's muttering indistinctly into the kiss, breathless words only occasionally in English, and his fingers are tight in Cullen's hair.

After a while, Cullen pulls away enough to say, "I've been on a bike all day. Don't suppose you've got a shower in this place?"

Dorian chuckles, as Cullen had hoped he would. "I hear you've got a thing for showers."

"And whose fault is that?" Cullen asks.

"Mine," Dorian says with deep satisfaction.

Cullen kisses him again, because that seems like the only appropriate response. The kiss, of course, is wildly _in_ appropriate, wet and open-mouthed, their tongues sliding together as Dorian grinds against him. It's tempting to skip the shower and just let Dorian continue to move like that, but now that he's caught up on his sleep a little, Cullen wants to do a lot more than jerk each other off on the sofa like teenagers.

Dorian must be having the same thought, because he breaks the kiss and climbs off Cullen's lap. "Shower," he says, and his voice is hoarse. "Now."

It takes them about five times longer than it should to get upstairs, stopping every three seconds to kiss again, shoving each other up against walls and doors. Cullen catches a brief glimpse of Dorian's bedroom before they're in the bathroom, and while he supposes he could stick his head back out and look around, he'd much rather stare at Dorian, who's half bent over to turn on the water.

The bathroom really isn't big enough for two grown men, but if Cullen sits on the closed lid of the toilet, there's enough room for Dorian to stand between his knees while they pull off their shirts. As soon as the first inch of Dorian's skin appears, Cullen kisses it, working his mouth around the waistband of Dorian's jeans and then up, forgetting about his own shirt until Dorian tugs at it. He leans back and yanks it hastily off, ignoring the brief flash of self-consciousness as Dorian tosses it out into the bedroom after his own. Shirts gone, Cullen tries to lean in again, but Dorian catches his head and tilts it back to kiss him, long and deep.

They're both breathing hard when Dorian pulls away. "Jesus," he mutters, stepping back far enough to pop the button on his jeans. Cullen tries to help, but Dorian swats at his hands. "I'm hoping to last a bit longer than three minutes," Dorian says, "and that's not going to happen if you don't get your hands away from my dick."

Cullen laughs and waits until Dorian is naked before trying to grab him again. Dorian twists away and into the shower, shaking a finger at Cullen in admonishment. "No touching until I get to touch you, too."

As if that's a hardship. Cullen manages to get naked and into the shower in record time, then immediately recoils from the water. "Fuck that's hot!"

"I hate being cold," Dorian says, ducking under the spray to wet his hair.

Cullen reaches past him and cranks the temperature down a little, pressing his body up against Dorian's as he does so. "I'll keep you warm," he says in his best cheesy-pickup-line voice, and kisses Dorian again before he can answer.

The water is still a little too warm, but then, he's a little too warm all over with Dorian's skin sliding against his and Dorian's tongue pressing into his mouth. He leans back until his shoulders hit the far wall of the tiny shower stall, pulling Dorian with him so he comes to rest against Cullen's chest, thighs between Cullen's.

"Jesus," Dorian says again, turning to press his forehead against Cullen's shoulder.

"Should I be worried that you keep saying some other guy's name?" Cullen asks, dropping his own head back against the wall as he tries to get enough air. Dorian's back ripples under his hands, the laugh mostly inaudible.

"Like that stupid high school joke," Dorian says.

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," Cullen says, running one hand down to grip Dorian's ass, "but I don't want to think about high school right now."

"Three kinds of orgasm," Dorian says into his ear, and the laugh is still in his voice. "There's the positive orgasm." His voice drops low and desperate as he breathes, "Yes, yes!" and Cullen can't stop his hips from rocking forward. "There's the negative orgasm." This time, he somehow manages to get exactly the right catch in his voice as he whispers, "Oh no, oh no," and Cullen's fingers tighten. "And the religious orgasm."

"Oh god, oh god," Cullen says, before Dorian can, because he's not sure he can take it if Dorian keeps whispering in his ear like that. "I missed that joke in high school."

"I don't know that 'miss' is the right word, but it was hysterically funny when I was fourteen." Dorian's mouth closes on his earlobe, sucking hard, and Cullen groans, hips pressing up again. "It _is_ a lot more interesting right this second, though. I wonder if I can get you to say all three in one night?"

Then Dorian is sliding downward out of his grasp until he's on his knees, his mouth closing on Cullen's dick, tongue swirling around the head. Cullen looks down at him--eyes closed in concentration, lashes spiked with water, wet hair slicked back from his face--and almost comes right there.

"Stop!" he manages to gasp out, and pushes Dorian away.

Harder than he meant to, judging by the startled look he gets, and he tries to explain. "Not yet," is the best he can do, and he hooks his hands under Dorian's arms to pull him back up and kiss him some more. "Sorry," he says, when he's no longer quite so close to losing control.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Dorian says, leaning in to press their cheeks together, and his mustache tickles Cullen's skin. With the water turned so high, Dorian's breath against his face is actually cooler than the air.

Cullen takes a deep breath and gets hold of himself. Metaphorically, not literally. "There's usually more soap involved when I shower."

Dorian bites his earlobe a little too hard, and Cullen yelps, an embarrassing noise for someone his age. "I'll give you soap," Dorian says, mock-threateningly, then does exactly that. Cullen almost drops it twice before he gets his hands lathered up.

They wash each other with far more thoroughness than necessary, soap-slicked hands running everywhere until they're both breathless, stopping every few seconds to kiss hard and quick. Cullen's grateful the shower stall is so small, because it means he's never more than a few inches from support when Dorian makes his knees buckle. He's too old for this, and he's going to feel stupid as hell if he slips and cracks his head, and he really doesn't care at all, so long as Dorian doesn't stop touching him.

When Dorian starts to kneel again, Cullen catches him and spins him around, pinning him back against his own chest. Dorian makes a noise of protest that changes to a groan as Cullen strokes his cock.

He puts his mouth against the curve of Dorian's ear. "I want to fuck you until we both come." Dorian's ass clenches, and Cullen has to shift his dick away to keep control. "And then I want you to fuck me until we both come again." This time, Dorian's whole body clenches, muscles rolling in a wave from head to foot.

Cullen licks his lips and tries to make the next part, the confession part, sound sexy. "I'm almost forty," he says, and talks over whatever Dorian tries to say. "You're hot as fucking hell, so I can pretty much guarantee I can get it up twice, but three times in one night is pushing it, so if you suck me off right here, one of those other two options is off the table. If that's what you want, then god knows I'm not going to complain, but you need to know it's a trade."

The noise Dorian's making is somewhere between a whine and a groan, rising and falling with his breaths for several seconds. "Jesus fucking Christ," he says at last. "Only you could make something like that sound so good." He laughs breathlessly. "I think you could read me the phone book, so long as you whispered it in my ear like that, and I'd be ready for anything you wanted to do."

"If you don't want to-"

"I want to," Dorian breathes.

"You don't even know what I was going to say," Cullen says, amused.

"Doesn't matter," Dorian says, still in the same breathless voice. "If it involves you and me naked, I want to." His hand drops to where Cullen's is curled around his cock, stopping the stroking. "But since we're being all honest and open and shit, I have to admit that any fucking that happens right now is going to last about ten seconds. If you keep talking to me like that, it'll be five seconds. If you want it to last longer, I need three minutes without your hands on me. Three minutes by myself, because looking at you is almost as bad as you touching me. "

Cullen licks a drop of water off the side of Dorian's neck, enjoying the way it makes him swallow hard. "If I leave you alone in here," he asks when he's thought carefully about both what Dorian said and what he didn't say, "are you going to jerk off?"

Dorian twitches, then gives an embarrassed laugh. "Yeah. I, uh, figured it was the easiest solution. Usually I'm a little smoother about that, but for some reason, I seem to be having trouble thinking right now." The hand keeping Cullen from stroking him tightens, pointedly.

"You really don't get it, do you?" Cullen says, letting his amusement hide his anger at all the guys Dorian's slept with in the past.

"Get what?" Dorian asks.

Cullen doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he tilts the shower head up so the spray is hitting the center of Dorian's chest, then grabs the soap and leans back against the shower wall with Dorian against him. When he's settled comfortably, feet braced wide so they don't slip, he pushes Dorian's restraining hand gently away.

"Get what?" Dorian asks again, fighting against Cullen's attempts to move his hand.

Ignoring the question for the moment, Cullen murmurs in his ear, "Tell me to stop and I will." He's not sure if Dorian is exaggerating the effect Cullen's voice has on him, or...okay, he knows Dorian's exaggerating, but he's not sure by how much. If he's not exaggerating too much, he's going to learn to regret giving Cullen such a potent weapon to use against him.

"Get _what_?" Dorian asks a third time, and his voice has slipped higher. His hand is no longer holding Cullen's in place.

Cullen lathers up both hands and passes the soap to Dorian. "Hold this for me," he says, and if it feels silly to say something so mundane in this bedroom voice Dorian's teaching him, it's paid off in spades when Dorian sucks in a quick breath.

"What you don't get," he says as he begins to stroke Dorian's cock again, both hands working together, "is what it does to me to watch you. In Norfolk? I wasn't sure it was actually going to work, right up until you came, and your whole body moved, and you looked at me like I was the most amazing thing you'd ever seen."

"Because you are," Dorian whispers, and when his shoulders tense, Cullen realizes he didn't mean to say it aloud.

He tucks that away for later, and bites gently at Dorian's shoulder, over the tattoo. "That's why we're not doing this face-to-face," he says against Dorian's skin. "Because if I could see your eyes, your mouth, right now? I'd be done, and I don't want that, not yet. That's what I was thinking about, that first time I touched you: how much I wanted to see you fall apart, just because of what I was doing to you."

He's rambling now, saying whatever passes through his head just to have something to say, because it's clear Dorian wasn't exaggerating much when he said that Cullen's voice turns him on. "I like to make you feel good," he whispers, turning to put his mouth against Dorian's ear again. "I like knowing that my hands are the reason you're making those noises, the reason you're so hard. And god, you're hard. I know you're trying to stay in control, but that's not what I want. I want you to fuck my hands, show me what you're going to do to my ass later."

Dorian shudders against him, that whine back in his throat, like a machine stressed to the limit.

"Please," Cullen whispers, stroking faster with one hand while the other cups the head of Dorian's cock to squeeze it gently. "I know you're close, and there's this noise you make when you come that's about the best thing I've ever heard. Not the cursing, though that's pretty hot, too, knowing I can take you to the point where you can't remember any of your seventeen million languages."

Dorian laughs and gasps at the same time, then groans as Cullen squeezes again and says, "But past that? You get to a point where you can't even talk, and that's when you make this noise. I didn't even notice it the first time, it's so quiet, just this little sound like you want to shout but your throat won't open wide enough. Yes," he says as Dorian thrusts into his hands and comes, that choked off noise making Cullen shudder. "God yes, just like that." He tightens his grip, squeezing the whole length of Dorian's cock between his two fists.

Dorian goes limp, gasping for air and shaking his head slowly back and forth. Cullen changes the angle of the showerhead again, letting the water wash them both clean while he ignores his own urge to just bend Dorian over and fuck him.

 _That won't be fun for either of us,_ he reminds his dick. _Soap is not a good substitute for lube._ He wasn't kidding when he told Dorian he learned that one the hard way, and it's not a lesson he needs to learn twice.

"You still alive?" he asks, once Dorian's breathing has calmed a bit.

"No," Dorian answers, turning languidly around so they're face-to-face but still pressed together. "I've died, and you're going to have some explaining to do tomorrow." He brushes his lips against Cullen's, then does it again and again, as if he can't stop himself.

"Well, can I at least tell them you died happy?" He catches Dorian's mouth, sliding his tongue between Dorian's lips to taste him for long seconds before leaning away. Too much of that, and he's not going to make it out of this shower after all. "Or was it a tragic demise, taking one for the team?"

Dorian bites the skin over his collarbone. "Do you really need to ask?"

"No," Cullen admits, stroking the backs of Dorian's thighs. "But it never hurts to check."

"Ha." Dorian reaches back and shuts off the water without leaning away from Cullen. "I'm sure there are towels around here somewhere, and then I can show you how utterly terrible my suffering was. Very tragic. Positively Shakespearean."

The drying off Cullen does barely qualifies as cursory, and he does it standing in the middle of the room, watching Dorian strip the bed down to the fitted sheet, blankets shoved into a pile on the floor. Cullen's hair is still dripping when Dorian flops out in the center of the bed, so close to one of Cullen's favorite fantasies that he has to take a deep breath.

"This bed's feeling a little empty," Dorian says, propping himself up on his elbows. Then he grins evilly. "You coming?"

"Any second now," Cullen mutters, and closes his eyes long enough to take another deep breath. His balls are aching, and it doesn't help in the least when he hears a noise that can only be Dorian cracking open a bottle of lube.

He opens his eyes to Dorian fucking himself with two slick fingers, and Cullen has to grip the base of his cock hard. "If you don't want me to fuck you," he growls, "you could just say so. Because if you keep that up, I'm not even going to make it to the bed."

"Just trying to help," Dorian says innocently, but he moves his hand away. "If you weren't so far away, you could do it for me."

Cullen tosses the towel over his shoulder and crosses the room slowly, watching Dorian watch him. Those eyes are dark, pupils wide, and Dorian's cock is starting to get hard again. "God, you're gorgeous," Cullen whispers when his knees hit the side of the mattress. He reaches out to cup Dorian's cheek and leans in for a kiss.

The skin under his palm warms, as if Dorian is blushing, but since when does Dorian blush over compliments? Cullen starts to lean back for a better look, only to be pulled down hard by Dorian's fingers in his hair, and with Dorian sucking on his lower lip, the presence or absence of a blush is suddenly a lot less important.

Pulling back a little, Cullen takes the lube from Dorian's unresisting fingers. "On your hands and knees," he says, voice husky, and Dorian rolls away eagerly.

For a second, Cullen does nothing except admire the view: all the lean muscles in Dorian's back and legs flexing, the single drop of water running down his arm from his hair, his cock hanging between his thighs. Cullen wants to touch every inch of him so badly he can't even move until Dorian says, "I think this is the audience-participation section of the program," and drops his shoulders to the mattress, forearms braced on either side of his head.

Cullen kneels behind him and sets the lube aside, remembering at the last second to flip the top closed. Then he takes one corner of the towel that's still over his shoulder and carefully wipes away the lube Dorian's already applied.

"I think you may be confused about how this works," Dorian says, and though he makes it sound like a joke, Cullen can see him tense, ready to pull away. "More lube, not less, please."

It's a peek into Dorian's previous relationships that Cullen didn't really want, especially not at this exact moment, and he swallows back another surge of anger at whoever taught Dorian to be so wary. Still, his disgust at that man or men does make it easier to get his own body under control.

"Shhhh." He runs a gentle hand down and then back up Dorian's leg, soothing him. "We'll get there. I just don't like it on my face."

Before Dorian can react, Cullen spreads him wide and licks the very base of his spine, right where it dips down between the cheeks of his ass. Dorian gasps out his name, body jerking, and Cullen tightens his grip, digging in with his thumbs to hold Dorian open. He turns his head to nip at the curve of his ass, sucking on the skin just to hear him whimper, before licking his way farther down, spreading Dorian's thighs wider.

When Cullen licks into him, Dorian makes a noise like he's choking and presses backward, the muscles under Cullen's hands trembling. "Jesus," Dorian whispers, then a string of words Cullen doesn't know. Cullen smiles and kisses his way down and back up, scraping his teeth lightly as he goes, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the skin. Dorian's skin is warm and smells faintly of soap, and Cullen presses his tongue inside him again and again, listening to him mutter breathless curses.

His jaw begins to ache a little and he shifts to rest his cheek against the small of Dorian's back, letting his fingers stroke the insides of his thighs, sliding forward to tug lightly on his balls, then back to slip just the tip of one finger inside him. Dorian has his head turned to the side to bury his face in the crook of one elbow, his curses muffled and completely unintelligible as Cullen licks and bites every inch of Dorian's ass he can reach.

Only then does he sit back and reach for the lube again, slicking two fingers. He tries to go slowly but Dorian thrusts back against his hand with another indistinct curse. Despite the clear message, Cullen takes his sweet time; not because he thinks Dorian needs it, but because Cullen wants to learn his body, learn what makes him writhe and what makes him moan and what makes him stop breathing all together.

Sweat is beading in the small of Dorian's back, and one drop runs down toward his shoulders. Cullen leans over to follow its path with his tongue, his fingers still fucking Dorian in slow, smooth strokes. Under his mouth, Dorian's skin twitches, and Cullen licks farther down, along the edge of the tattoo until he gets to Dorian's shoulder and the snake's head. When he sucks on the skin there, Dorian whispers, "Cullen, _please_."

"Please what?" he teases, turning his head to breathe the words into Dorian's ear.

"Fuck me," Dorian gasps out. "Please, please fuck me."

And maybe that wasn't a good idea, making him say it, because Cullen is shaking right along with him now. It takes him two tries to get the lube open again, and when he fists his dick, he's painfully aware how close he is to the edge. As he sets the bottle down on the nightstand, he takes a deep breath, fighting for every ounce of control he can get before he lines up his cock and presses into Dorian.

He tries to take it slowly, but once again, Dorian has other ideas, turning Cullen's tentative first thrust into one long stroke that ends with their hips flush against each other, and Cullen's eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck," he whispers.

Dorian laughs breathlessly, his face still pressed into the crook of his elbow. "That's the idea," he says, the words muffled by his arm.

Cullen laughs and bends forward to kiss the back of his neck, right at the top of his spine where the hair is shaved close, enjoying the way Dorian arches into him. With his eyes still closed, he brushes his lips along Dorian's hairline, holding his hips steady until he's reasonably sure he's not going to come in the next two seconds.

"Please," Dorian begs again, and Cullen buries his face in the curve of his neck and starts to move.

One hand on Dorian's hip, the other braced against the wall at the head of the bed, Cullen fucks him in slow, hard thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, dragging Dorian back to meet him on every stroke. It's been a long time since he last did this, and even longer since he last did this without a condom, and Dorian's ass is so tight and hot and perfect that Cullen is already shaking.

"Faster," Dorian moans, his fingers curling into fists. "Please, oh god, please, _harder_."

"Won't last," Cullen says, gritting his teeth because Dorian begging to be fucked harder and faster isn't helping him stay in control.

"I don't-" Dorian stops, takes a breath, swallows thickly. "I don't _care_ , please, just... _harder_..." The words trail off into a mumbled litany, not all of it in English.

Cullen groans and straightens up a little, bracing one foot on the bed by Dorian's knee, his hands gripping Dorian's shoulder and hip for leverage. He pauses there for a second, just gathering himself, and Dorian twists his head to look back at him.

"Not what I meant by harder," he says.

Normally, Cullen would laugh, or tease him back, but Dorian on his elbows and knees looking over his shoulder with his eyes dark and his lips parted is an image that goes straight to his gut. Cullen's hips roll involuntarily, and he draws in a ragged breath. "Getting there." His voice is more of a rasp, but he doesn't really care.

There's no telling what Dorian planned to say next, because his lips have barely formed the first sound when Cullen leans back and then snaps his hips forward. Dorian's sarcastic comment vanishes in a gasp. Cullen smiles briefly, then repeats the motion, tightening his grip as Dorian's knees slip on the sheets. "Was that what you had in mind?" he murmurs, pleased that he can say the whole sentence without pausing for breath in the middle.

He waits long enough for Dorian to start his answer, then thrusts again, enjoying the way Dorian's "yes!" becomes a hiss as their bodies meet. This time, he doesn't stop, just holds on and fucks Dorian as hard as he can, losing himself in the way Dorian groans under him, the wet sounds as he thrusts, the pressure building in his stomach and his balls.

At the ragged edge of his control, he bends forward again, needing to be as close to Dorian as possible even if it slows his thrusts. He drapes himself across Dorian's back, cheek along the side of his head, and rocks against him, struggling for air as his balls tighten. One of Dorian's hands clutches at his hair, pressing them closer, and when he whispers, "Oh god, _Cullen_ ," Cullen's body seizes up and his lungs freeze as he comes, curling around Dorian so their skin is touching in as many places as possible.

When his hips stop jerking, he doesn't move immediately, though he knows he should let Dorian breathe, should do something useful like suck him off, but for just a few seconds, he ignores all of that. It feels so good, being this close to him, and Cullen wants to savor it for just a little while. He'll stay here until Dorian lets go of his hair, he decides.

Except Dorian seems perfectly content to maintain his grip, and eventually Cullen says, "I've got to be crushing you."

"Not in a bad way," Dorian says, the words muffled by the way his face is pressed into the mattress.

"I can't really do anything interesting from here," Cullen tries again.

"You're plenty interesting there," Dorian says. "Unless you want to move?"

Cullen turns enough to kiss the top of Dorian's shoulder. "Nope, not unless you want me to."

"Nope."

So they stay like that a while longer, until Cullen's back begins to complain and he has to change position. He only goes as far as his knees, encouraging Dorian to roll over beneath him. Dorian stretches as he turns, so obviously putting on a show that Cullen grins and kisses him once he's on his back.

 "Tell me what you want," Cullen says against his mouth. "I, uh, didn't mean to take over quite like that."

Dorian stretches some more, deliberately arching up to rub his dick against Cullen's stomach. "I think we've already been over my tragic suffering," he says. "It's been a terrible evening so far, I don't know how I've survived it."

"Smart ass," Cullen says fondly. "Tell me what you want, or I'll roll over and go to sleep just for revenge."

All the teasing vanishes from Dorian's face, and he leans up to press their mouths together again. The kiss is tentative, as if Dorian's not sure it's welcome, so Cullen kisses him back enthusiastically; if he can't say "I love you," he can still let his mouth express the sentiment.

Dorian pulls back a little, and he looks like he's thinking way too much. "I want you to suck me." It's almost a question, and that squeezes something in Cullen's chest, something he doesn't want to think about right now.

So he doesn't, just slides down Dorian's body, tasting his skin along the way, sucking on one nipple, licking the curve of his ribs, pausing to nuzzle into Dorian's stomach until Dorian laughs and swats at the back of his head. Cullen bites him gently and continues down.

Dorian's cock is already damp at the tip when Cullen gets there, and he doesn't waste time teasing, just wraps his lips around it, sucking hard as he slides down to the base. When the head is pressing against the back of his throat, cutting off his air, he fucks Dorian with three fingers, hard and fast.

His arm across Dorian's hips is the only thing that keeps him on the bed, and the feel of those muscles flexing under him stirs a lazy heat deep in his stomach. Nothing that's going to get him hard, not this soon, but it's nice anyway, and it burns a little hotter when Dorian combs shaking fingers through his hair.

" _Cullen_."

It's so desperate that Cullen looks up, leaning back enough to see without taking his mouth off Dorian's cock entirely. Dorian is propped on one elbow watching him, and when Cullen meets his eyes, he makes a strange noise, almost a laugh.

"This is what I was thinking about," he says. Whispers, really. "When I called Rilienus by your name, this is what I wanted."

Cullen smiles and pulls away a little, enough to say, "Well, so long as you don't call me Rilienus now, I think we'll be okay."

"No danger," Dorian murmurs. His fingers touch Cullen's cheek lightly, and the look on his face is pure wonder. "No danger at all."

Words are burning in the back of Cullen's throat, but he holds them back. He likes to think he's figuring Dorian out, at least a little, and he suspects that if he says "I love you" right now, in the middle of sex, Dorian won't believe him. Saying it now could even poison the words forever: Dorian might never believe him, if he starts here.

So instead of saying anything, he turns his face into Dorian's hand, kissing the palm before bending his head back to Dorian's cock. As he licks and sucks his way down, he moves his fingers inside Dorian again, slowly at first, then picking up speed along with his mouth, taking Dorian's cock all the way in. Dorian's hands rake through his hair to cup the sides of his head without trying to push downward, though his fingertips press in hard.

He's murmuring Cullen's name, mixed in with "yes" and "fuck" and words Cullen doesn't know, his voice cracking occasionally as the muscles in his thighs flex. When his voice has turned frantic and his fingers are digging into Cullen's scalp, Cullen lets his mouth slip all the way down until coarse hair tickles his nose and turns his fingers in the way that made Dorian cry out earlier.

Dorian comes almost silently, his knees rising and his shoulders curving forward as if he's trying to curl into a ball. Cullen swallows as fast as he can, pressing his tongue up until Dorian slumps back to the bed and his dick begins to soften.

"About like that?" Cullen asks hoarsely, teasing.

"About like that," Dorian agrees, one arm flung over his face. His tone is casual, light, but when Cullen crawls up the bed to join him, his kiss is anything but.

After a while, Cullen pulls away reluctantly to fish on the floor for pillows and blankets. They're a tangled mess, but he gets them sorted out well enough, tossing Dorian's pillow on top of his face when all he does is lay there watching.

"You were doing such a good job, it didn't seem like you needed my help," Dorian protests. There's a smirk hiding in the corners of his eyes as he stuffs the pillow under his head. "Besides, you couldn't expect me to do anything useful with your ass in the air like that, distracting me."

Cullen drives a knuckle into his ribs and kisses him at the same time. "Next time, we'll do something more interesting with my ass in the air, but right now, I'm exhausted. Am I a terrible person if all I want to do is sleep?"

"I think I can live with that plan," Dorian says, rolling away so that Cullen can curl up against his back.

Worn out, his body still humming pleasantly, Cullen is only too happy to wrap an arm around him and burrow them both deeper into the bed.

"And look," Dorian mumbles into the pillow as Cullen tugs up the blankets, "I even remembered the right name, this time."

Cullen bites his ear, lightly. "Try to get it right next time, too, okay?"

"No problem," Dorian says. He sounds like he's right on the edge of sleep, his voice blurry and soft in a way that makes Cullen smile. "Right guy, right name. Easy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That was a lot tougher than I expected it to be. All that build-up gave me serious writer-anxiety, trying to make sure it was worth the wait. I'm never doing slow-burn again!
> 
> (Did I mention I'm playing with an idea for another Cullen/Dorian slow burn? Fake relationship. Marriage of convenience. It's entirely ridiculous. It might even manage to be complete fluff, though I wouldn't bet on it.)


	26. Hyla Brook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I have a problem with my porn growing a plot. This time, I had a problem with my plot growing some porn. It's turned this into a ridiculously long chapter, but I can't find a good breakpoint, so here it is!

It's strange to share a bed with another person after so long, and Dorian wakes at least half a dozen times during the night. Every time he wakes, he's amazed all over again, his fingers exploring Cullen's arm across his chest, most of his attention absorbed by the light breath across the back of his neck. The whole thing leaves him feeling shaky inside, which doesn't exactly make it easy to sleep.

Not that it matters. A little lost sleep is a small price to pay for the weight of Cullen's arm around him.

The clock informs him that it's a little after six in the morning when he wakes and finds himself alone in the bed. Before he can panic, he hears movement in the bathroom and the tap of a cup being set down on the counter. A dim strip of light creeps out around the bottom of the door before darkness returns and the door opens.

"You all right?" Dorian asks softly.

"Oh yeah," Cullen says. The mattress dips under his weight as he puts a knee on the edge, bending over to kiss Dorian lightly. "Even better now."

He tastes like Dorian's toothpaste, and Dorian mentally smacks himself in the back of the head for the way that makes him feel warm inside. _Get it together, Pavus,_ he says. _Getting sappy about toothpaste is a little much, don't you think?_

"You cheated," he accuses Cullen, to hide his rather embarrassing reaction.

"Did I?" Cullen sounds amused. One of his hands slid under the blankets at some point and is now stroking its way up the inside of Dorian's thigh. "How so?"

Dorian loses his train of thought for a moment and has to scramble to catch it. "You brushed your teeth. Now I have to brush mine."

"I didn't know there were rules about this sort of thing," Cullen says, and Dorian can feel the smile against his mouth. "I'll do better next time, how about that?"

"Too late," Dorian says, sliding out from under him to head for the bathroom. "Now the pressure's on, and I have to keep up with this impossible standard you've set."

"Speaking of keeping up..." Cullen says. Dorian can practically hear the suggestive eyebrow-waggle.

"Hold that thought," Dorian says over his shoulder.

Cullen drops onto the bed with an exaggerated sigh. "I might fall asleep, if you don't hurry."

Despite Dorian's attempts to do exactly that, Cullen appears to have drifted off again by the time he returns: he's curled on his side, back toward Dorian, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. When Dorian puts a knee on the bed, however, Cullen gives an elaborate and prolonged fake snore that makes him choke on a laugh.

"You're asleep, huh?" Dorian asks.

"Completely." Another fake snore. "Can't you tell?"

"Mmmm, I'm not quite sure." He crawls back into bed, fitting his body against Cullen's, and that feels so right on so many levels that he forgets what he was going to say and instead just tucks his forehead into the curve at the top of Cullen's spine.

Cullen makes a pleased noise and presses back into him, his ass not quite grinding against Dorian's cock. While Dorian is still trying to decide if that was just a side effect of snuggling or an actual hint for more, Cullen's hand reaches back to grip his thigh, right under his ass, and pulls their hips together.

Which makes it pretty clear what he's after, and Dorian isn't going to object. He doesn't change their positions, just lets his hand stroke up and down Cullen's body, reveling in the feel of his skin and in the small noises he makes. At one point, Cullen tries to touch him, but Dorian just catches his hand and puts it firmly on the mattress. Cullen doesn't try to move it again, though he does huff out a brief laugh.

Dorian leans away to snag the lube off the bedside table, and when he returns, Cullen clears his throat and says awkwardly, "It's...been a while. Go a little slow?"

The words set off a fine tremor through Dorian's whole body, one he hopes Cullen can't feel. "No problem," he murmurs, and focuses on holding his hands steady. He pours lube into his palm, then strokes Cullen's dick until his hand slides easily along the whole length and Cullen's hand on the mattress is clenched into a fist.

"Touch yourself," he murmurs in Cullen's ear, and smiles at the swift inhale this gets him.

After all their joking, he half expects Cullen to touch himself on the shoulder or nose or some other ridiculous place, but he doesn't: his hand goes straight to his cock, trapping Dorian's underneath. Their hands move together for a few seconds, before Dorian reluctantly pulls his away.

A little more lube--the outside of the bottle is now slick enough that he almost pours it on Cullen in his haste--and then he's running one finger along the crease of Cullen's ass, his other arm going under Cullen's head to close the distance between them. His body is screaming _nownownow!_ but he ignores it and places a soft, slow kiss on the back of Cullen's neck.

Cullen bends his top leg up without prompting, and Dorian strokes farther forward, all the way to Cullen's balls and then back to the base of his spine. For a little while, that's all he does, his fingers moving steadily back and forth but not in, his lips and tongue teasing at Cullen's hairline. Only when Cullen's breath is catching every time Dorian's finger slides by without sliding in does he actually press into him, and then only the tip of one finger.

"Maybe not quite so slow?" Cullen says. He's teasing and breathless together, and the combination makes Dorian dizzy.

"No backseat driving," Dorian tells him, and Cullen's low chuckle only makes the dizziness worse.

Dorian takes the hint, though, picking up his pace, easing first one finger and then two inside him. In the darkness, and from this angle, it's impossible to see Cullen's face, so Dorian closes his eyes and tries to learn Cullen's body by sound and touch. With his chest against Cullen's back, he can feel every twitch and hear every gasp as if it were his own.

There's no way to tell how long it's been before Cullen whispers his name with a desperate "please!" and Dorian leans away one last time to slick himself, keeping his touch as light as possible. Mouth against the back of Cullen's neck, he reaches down to line up his cock, teasing Cullen with his fingers one last time before he thrusts slowly in.

He sets an unhurried pace, long seconds to push all the way in and then longer seconds to pull almost all the way out. One of his arms is back under Cullen's head; he rests the other hand on Cullen's hip, holding him steady for each stroke, even as he feels Cullen's hand on his cock moving faster and faster.

Gradually he picks up speed to match the swift movements of Cullen's hand, shifting his body until he's moving in short, sharp thrusts and Cullen is rocking back to meet him on each one. Dorian has stopped kissing the back of his neck, because he no longer has the fine motor skills for even something that simple. Instead, his mouth is just resting against the skin, lips parted so he can get enough air as Cullen's body tenses and shudders.

With the hand not on his dick, Cullen reaches under the pillow and twists his fingers through Dorian's, squeezing as if that grip is the only thing keeping him alive. Dorian bites his lip and squeezes back just as Cullen jerks against him and comes, his ass clenching tight around Dorian's cock.

In memory, he hears Cullen's voice rumbling in his ear, "...this little sound like you want to shout but your throat won't open wide enough..." Rather than making him self-conscious, it pushes him over the edge, and he comes with a gasp, his hand on Cullen's hip pinning their bodies together until they're both slumping, boneless, to the bed.

"Well," Dorian says, when he can talk again. "That's certainly a nice way to start the day."

"Who says we have to start the day?" Cullen asks. He reaches out to wipe his hand on the far corner of the sheet, then takes Dorian's wrist and pulls it forward. "We could always just go back to sleep."

Dorian smiles and rests his hand on Cullen's chest. "Just like this, huh?"

"Just like this," Cullen says, and there's that strange dizzy feeling again. Dorian would call it panic, except that rather than wanting to run, he wants to find reasons to never leave this room.

They doze a little after that, Dorian's arms tight around Cullen, until the sun shining through the window drives them from the bed. In the bathroom, Cullen declines his offer to share the shower. "I know all about you and showers," Cullen says with a grin and a quick kiss as he escapes back to the bedroom.

" _Me_?" Dorian demands in mock outrage, shouting after him to be heard through the wall. "I had a perfectly normal relationship with my bathing facilities until a certain person turned it into a fetish."

There's no response, but then, he hadn't really expected one.

He showers fast and comes out to find Cullen sprawled naked on the bed, reading something on his phone with a faint smile. "We're never going to make it out of the room at this rate," Dorian says, admiring the view.

"Who says I want to?" Cullen says, then tosses his phone in the direction of his pants and rolls off the bed. He kisses Dorian again on the way by, as if he can't walk past without doing so. Not something Dorian's going to complain about, even if Cullen does have more willpower than is entirely healthy. He evades Dorian's grabbing hands and makes it to the bathroom, closing the door firmly. Dorian can hear him laughing before the water cuts on and drowns it out.

Uninterested in being where Cullen isn't, Dorian dresses as slowly as possible, and when that doesn't use up enough time, he strips and remakes the bed. Cullen comes out of the bathroom as he's tucking in the top sheet, and Dorian pauses to appreciate the sight of Cullen naked, a few last drops of water running down his chest.

Cullen coughs once, clearly a little embarrassed, and Dorian remembers his comments last night about his weight. Rather than say anything directly, he lets his face say it for him, making no effort to hide his appreciation. Cullen coughs again, going red from more than the hot water in the shower, but Dorian thinks he also--maybe--looks a little pleased.

When they finally make it to the kitchen, Cullen is even the one to say, "So, what's for breakfast?"

Not that Dorian has a good answer. "Cereal?" he suggests, peering into a cabinet. "Canned ravioli?" Cullen makes an exaggerated gagging noise, and Dorian adds, "I hear cold pizza is a classic." The remains of last night's dinner are in the fridge, after all.

"Breakfast of champions," Cullen agrees blandly. "Or we could go out."

"Or we could go out!" Dorian says, as if the idea just occurred to him. Cullen is laughing, and Dorian doesn't bother fighting the urge to step into his space and kiss him. Kissing Cullen while he laughs is quickly becoming one of Dorian's favorite things to do, and if the hands on his hips are any indication, Cullen certainly doesn't mind.

"Breakfast," Dorian says at last, pulling away reluctantly.

"Breakfast," Cullen agrees, then kisses him again.

When they come up for air, Dorian says, "If this is all an ingenious ploy to keep me from leaving the house, it's working."

"Sorry," Cullen says, looking a little embarrassed as he steps back. "I just...I spent all those months thinking about touching you and not being able to, and now I can, and it's...if I'm not touching you, there's a part of me that doesn't believe this is real."

Dorian doesn't have the words for all the thoughts and emotions crowding inside him, so he just hooks one finger through two of Cullen's. "I know what you mean."

"We'll work on it?" Cullen asks, tracing Dorian's cheekbone with one finger. Dorian nods, and Cullen tweaks one end of his mustache, smiling. "After breakfast, though."

Out in the garage, Dorian looks from Cullen's motorcycle to his own Jeep, and cocks his head. "Am I driving?"

"If you don't mind riding..." Cullen trails off and shrugs a shoulder. "I have an extra helmet, but I know some guys don't like riding behind. Would it bother you?"

Dorian raises a questioning eyebrow. "Depends. Have you ever referred to it as the 'bitch seat'?"

Cullen's lip curls, which is an answer in itself, but he also says, "I always thought any guy who called it that deserved to have a bitch riding on it."

"Then I think I'm comfortable enough in my own masculinity to risk riding behind you."

"I don't think you have anything to worry about there," Cullen murmurs. Before Dorian can think of a suitable response, he pops open one of the saddlebags and pulls out a second helmet.

"That's not going to do anything good for my hair," Dorian says, mostly joking, when Cullen holds it out to him.

"Neither will asphalt, if something goes wrong and I put this bike down in the middle of the road," Cullen says. One corner of his mouth has turned up in a faint smile, but his eyes are serious.

Dorian grants him the point by accepting the helmet, but he can't resist adding as he buckles it on, "Five minutes on a motorcycle is hardly the most dangerous thing I'll do this month. You do remember that I let people shoot at me for a living?"

"I remember," Cullen says, and his tone sends a weird chill down Dorian's spine: way, way too serious.

A second chill follows the first as Dorian realizes that his next op, whatever and whenever it is, will take him away from someone whose life will be more than peripherally affected by his death. It's the first time he's ever had to consider that; Bull goes with him, after all, and there's no one else he matters to, not like that. Certainly all of his previous lovers would have been more inconvenienced than devastated if he hadn't come back. He has friends who would grieve, even cry at his funeral, but the death of a friend isn't the same as the death of a...what? Boyfriend? Lover? Partner?

Dorian will call it whatever Cullen wants, so long as it includes Cullen himself, but is Cullen even prepared for that inevitable separation?

Two of Dorian's past relationships ended with an ultimatum, a demand that he choose between the relationship and the army. In both cases, Dorian chose the army without a second's hesitation. He doesn't know what he'll do if Cullen makes that same demand, only that he'll regret the decision no matter which one he makes.

"I remember," Cullen says again, softer. "And since there's nothing I can do about that, let's try to minimize other chances for you to die young, okay?"

The words are hardly reassuring. If Cullen could do something about it, what would that something be?

"I'm good at what I do," Dorian says, dread coiling inside him. "I'm very good at it."

"You are," Cullen agrees.

"I...could find another job, I guess," he says, hating himself even as the words are leaving his mouth, "but I really don't want to."

"I'm not asking you to." He cups Dorian's cheek and smiles crookedly. "I just want to be the one they call if something happens to you."

Dorian stares at him, hearing the words but not understanding. It's like their first time, Cullen stroking him and expecting nothing in return. It's too far outside his experience with people, and his brain has to grind through the calculations manually.

Cullen murmurs something, that crooked smile turning softer.

"What?" Dorian asks, still struggling to figure everything out. _Don't forget to carry the one,_ he thinks, and has to choke back a laugh.

"I knew the job was dangerous when I took it," Cullen says, as if he's repeating himself, but if there's one thing Dorian knows, it's the rhythm of language, and those aren't the words Cullen said the first time.

When he points this out, Cullen looks faintly embarrassed. "It's nothing, just a bit of a poem."

"What poem?"

"You won't have heard of it," Cullen warns, but when Dorian just raises an eyebrow at him, he says, "It's by Robert Frost, called 'Hyla Brook.'"

"Okay, you're right. Never heard of it."

"Told you so," Cullen says with a grin. "Now, where are we going for breakfast?"

It's such an obvious attempt at a distraction that Dorian almost calls him on it, but his head is spinning too much to get the right words in order. Instead, he makes a mental note to look the poem up later, and puts the helmet on while he gives Cullen directions.

Cold as it is, Dorian actually enjoys the ride. Mostly because it gives him an iron-clad excuse to press himself against Cullen; even if his body hasn't recovered enough for his dick to get hard, being close to him feels good and right in a way that scares him when he thinks about it too hard. So he doesn't think about it, just enjoys the experience until they reach the restaurant.

Nine o'clock on a Wednesday morning isn't exactly rush hour, and they get a booth without having to wait. Dorian has sat across from Bull in this exact restaurant too many times to count, and it's a little odd every time he looks up and finds Cullen instead. Good odd, but odd.

Cullen orders an egg-white omelet with vegetables--no cheese, even--and Dorian sips his coffee to stop himself from re-opening the conversation about Cullen's weight. If he's still obsessing over food in a few months, Dorian will say something then, but pushing at it now won't accomplish anything. Cullen hasn't even been back a year, after all.

The thought serves as a depressing reminder about how little time he's known Cullen, and how little time Cullen has known him. How long before Cullen figures out exactly what he's gotten himself in for? So far, exhaustion and sex have done Dorian's work for him, keeping Cullen from thinking too hard about anything Mrs. Adaar might have said to him, but he's not an idiot, and he's going to start putting it together eventually. What happens when he does? Whether he's still preoccupied with food in a few months might not be something Dorian will get to address.

He's doing a fine job working himself up, until Cullen glances across the table and smiles at him, the same blinding smile from yesterday afternoon, as if just looking at Dorian is enough to make him happy.

Dorian smiles back, for much the same reason: he can't look at Cullen smiling and not feel better.

Then Cullen picks up his coffee and says, "We need to talk," and all Dorian's fear comes right back.

Cullen glances at him and nearly drops his mug in his haste to grab one of Dorian's hands in both of his. "Not like that. Jesus. I'm not going anywhere unless you want me to, but we do need to make actual plans at some point."

"What kind of plans?" Dorian asks, his heart beating too fast.

"Well..." Cullen runs one thumb along the bones in the back of his hand. "What do you want? Do you want me to move up here?"

"All on me, then?" Dorian says. It's supposed to be teasing, but it doesn't come out right.

Cullen gives him a measuring look. "Only half on you. I want to be with you. Do you want me to be here on a permanent basis? Or do you want to work this thing long distance for a little while first?"

"I want you here. Not in Kentucky." He has to fight himself for the words; not because he doesn't mean them, but because a tiny part of him keeps waiting for Cullen to turn all these small confessions into weapons to use against him.

"Okay," Cullen says. "So I move up here. Should I get my own place?"

"No!" That's easier, the word slipping out before the paranoid part of him can interfere. "I mean, not unless you want to."

"Why would I want to?" Cullen says with a smile. He turns Dorian's hand over, his thumbs now stroking across the palm.

It's seriously distracting, which is Dorian's only excuse for what he says next. "Well, I didn't know if Mrs. Adaar might have scared you away." _Fuck._

"Nah," Cullen says. Then he frowns. "But I'm still not entirely sure what she thought I was doing. Did someone try to break into your house or something?"

Bloody buggering fuck. "No," Dorian says. When Cullen greets this with an expectant look, he forces himself to add, "An ex-boyfriend of mine...came around while I was out of the country. When I was with you, actually. He conned Mrs. Adaar into letting him into the house, then stole my spare key and moved in until I got home and kicked his sorry ass back out."

Cullen's expression is everything Dorian expected but didn't want it to be. "Was he harassing you? Is he still coming around?"

Oh god, could this get any worse? "He's...been in prison. I didn't realize he was out."

"Prison?" Cullen looks pole-axed.

"Yes, the place they send bad people," Dorian snaps, anxiety putting too much bite in the words. "He was convicted of identity theft and wire fraud, and since those are nonviolent crimes, they released him early for good behavior, something I would never have thought he could manage."

"Hey," Cullen says, squeezing Dorian's hand. "Sorry, you just took me by surprise. Were you dating him at the time?"

"Yes. Can we talk about something else, now?"

"Sorry," Cullen says again. "I know that must have been rough for you."

Dorian closes his eyes and presses the finger and thumb of his free hand to the bridge of his nose. Time to rip the bandaid off. "Not as rough as it might have been. I've had lots of practice with bad breakups and assholes, seeing as you're the first guy I've ever dated who Bull will actually talk to willingly. The rest were...not really nice people." And that's the understatement of the century.

"Oh," Cullen says.

Dorian doesn't open his eyes. "My relationship history isn't exactly pristine, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I'd noticed," Cullen says, and Dorian's eyes fly open in surprise. Cullen is smiling gently at him. "I figured you'd probably had some bad ones, just from things you said."

"More than 'some,' to be honest." He takes a sip of coffee to force his throat open. "Try 'every boyfriend I've ever had.' Except you, assuming you even want-"

"Stop," Cullen says. "I want, okay? I want you, I want to be with you. You're not going to send me screaming for home by telling me this shit. Okay, yeah, some of the details took me by surprise, but none of it changes anything." He looks down at their hands, one finger stroking the creases in Dorian's palm. "Is this why you were panicking about what your neighbor was saying? You were afraid I'd run because you had some bad relationships in the past?"

Dorian grins, trying for flippant and only sort of succeeding. "Well, it wasn't really the first impression I wanted to make."

"Since it wasn't the first, I wouldn't worry about it." Confused, Dorian frowns at him, and Cullen explains with a smile, "My first impression of you involved armed guards and inappropriate literary references, remember?"

"I meant your first impression of my life outside the army," Dorian mutters.

"But that's only part of your life," Cullen says. "Separating the guy with the overprotective neighbor from the guy who blew kisses at me from a fucking _prison cell_ is kind of misleading."

"And what about the guy who makes shitty relationship choices?"

"I like to think I'm one of those relationship choices," Cullen says. "So maybe we can find some other way to describe them, besides shitty?"

Their food arrives, then, saving Dorian from answering, and by the time ketchup has been brought and coffee cups refilled, he's feeling a little calmer.

"So," he says, as he pours ketchup on his hash browns. "Plans." He's still anxious about this conversation, too, but it's a lot less nerve-wracking than the other one.

"Plans," Cullen says, cutting a tiny bite from his omelet. "I move up here, and...in with you?"

He sounds hesitant, and Dorian realizes he might not be the only one at this table worrying. "I'd like that," he makes himself say, because it's true. "If you want to."

Cullen smiles at him, so warm that Dorian feels it like a touch. "Definitely." Then he makes a face. "Now I just need to find a job."

"Had any thoughts on it?"

"My family has several," Cullen says wryly. Before Dorian can ask him to elaborate, he gets a funny look on his face, his fork poised halfway to his mouth. "Which reminds me. I, ummmm, have a bit of a confession of my own."

"Oh?" Dorian says, bracing himself for god knows what.

Cullen sets his fork down, which doesn't make Dorian feel any better. "I'm going to tell you something," he says, "and then I'm going to explain it. I need you to let me explain before you react, okay?"

Dorian stabs a piece of sausage, even though he's not really interested in food right now. "Okay."

"I haven't told my family about us. All I told them was that I was going to visit friends. Hell, they don't even know I'm staying with you."

"Okay," Dorian says again, waiting for the part that's supposed to send him over the metaphorical cliff.

One of Cullen's eyebrows twitches up briefly, but he forges on. "Mostly it's my mother I was worried about. I mean, I love her, but she's really a force of nature sometimes, and when she gets something into her head, it can be hard to move her. If I'd told her that I was coming to see the guy who was partly responsible for bringing me home, to see if we could make a relationship work, she'd have followed me here to tell you all about why you should marry me."

Dorian's eyes go wide in horror, then wider as he realizes how Cullen might take that.

But Cullen is laughing. "Exactly. So, I haven't told her anything, and I didn't want that to slip out later and be weird."

"Will you tell her now?"

"When I get back," Cullen says. "It's a lot easier to scrape her off the ceiling in person, and I can get my sister to help."

"Are you going back?" Dorian asks, because that matters to him a lot more than whether Cullen told his mother anything before he left for Seattle.

"I have to, for at least a couple weeks," Cullen says apologetically. "If nothing else, I need to pack up my shit. And...it would mean a lot to her if I was there for Christmas. That's not much to ask, after everything she's gone through this year." He stares down at his omelet, picking at something green in the center. "Do you want to come with me? I mean, my family's insane at Christmas, and my mother will take every opportunity to tell you that May is a nice month for weddings, and I can completely understand if you'd rather skip it. There are years where I'd skip it if I could."

Dorian takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. It's all too much, too fast, and he can't process any more. "Can I...think about it?"

"Of course," Cullen says. Dorian thinks he sees a flash of disappointment, but it's gone before he can be sure. And even if he was sure of that, he's not sure at all about Christmas with Cullen's family. That's a far deeper commitment than having someone move in with him; he's lived with boyfriends in the past, after all. He's never spent the holidays with any of them.

His whole body feels like it's shaking again, a trembling that starts deep in his chest and works its way out to his fingertips, so that his fork clatters on his plate when he tries to chase down the last bit of his eggs.

"Hey," Cullen says softly, startling him into looking up. "I'm sorry, I know this is all moving fast. Are you sure you want me to move in? I'd understand if you want me to get my own place."

Dorian shakes his head. That part, at least, he doesn't have any questions about. "I want you to move in," he says firmly. He makes himself push everything to one side so he can give Cullen a real smile. "I like waking up beside you."

Cullen smiles back. "I like waking up beside you, too."

###

They go for a walk after breakfast, wandering through the park a few blocks over from the restaurant. Cullen holds his hand without any sign of self-consciousness, and Dorian tries to match his nonchalance. He's done his share of making out in public places, throwing his sexuality down like a challenge to anyone who wanted to accept it, but he's not used to something like this.

He finds himself stealing glances at Cullen from the corner of his eye, not entirely sure this isn't all a dream, and maybe he would feel embarrassed by it, except that he keeps catching Cullen giving him the same look. The third time their eyes meet like that, Cullen laughs and pulls him around for a kiss. It's not anything wild, but Dorian still almost trips over his own feet when he tries to walk again.

The ride home is worse than the ride to the restaurant, because now his body's had time to recover, and having Cullen's hips between his thighs is not something he can just ignore. In his younger and stupider days, he would have tried to start something, consequences be damned, but he's no longer interested in pushing his luck by distracting the driver of the motorcycle he's riding on, especially not when it risks Cullen's life as well as his own.

That self-restraint lasts until the garage door is closing behind them, and Cullen pulls off his helmet, at which point Dorian plants his hands firmly on Cullen's thighs and says, "I believe you issued me a challenge, yesterday."

"Did I now?" Cullen looks over his shoulder, grinning, and Dorian's cock jumps when he realizes he's been played.

"You planned this," he accuses.

Cullen's grin widens, even as his cheeks flush. "Let's say I hoped you'd get some ideas."

The whole thing is almost as awkward as Cullen said it would be, but it's also totally worth it to see him come apart like this: legs spread wide across the seat, jacket hanging open, hair in sweaty curls from the helmet, groaning as Dorian sucks him. The smells of leather and machinery mix with the smell of Cullen's skin, and Dorian has to take his hand off his cock to stop himself from coming before Cullen.

"I have all the good ideas," he says to Cullen afterward, his forehead resting against Cullen's thigh. The concrete floor of the garage is hardly comfortable for his knees, but he's not really interested in moving right now.

Cullen runs light fingers through his hair, mussing it more than he already has. "You have any others you want to try, just let me know."

###

They spend the afternoon aimlessly, watching movies and reading and talking. And touching, which is the part Dorian enjoys the most even as he struggles to understand it. The touches aren't sexual, or if they are, they're not directed at building toward sex. Cullen touches him the way Bull touches him, casual contact that means nothing more complicated than, "I'm glad you're here."

Which isn't something Dorian knows how to accept from a lover. He works himself up about it three or four times over the day, wondering if maybe Cullen is already pulling back, except that every time he hits the tipping point on real fear, Cullen will kiss him, or touch him in a way that's decidedly more-than-friendly, and the fear will ease back down for a little while.

Dinner with Mrs. Adaar is a lot easier than Dorian expected it to be. It's awkward at first, Mrs. Adaar making more apologies that only serve to emphasize exactly how fucked up Dorian's past relationships have been, but Cullen only smiles and waves the whole thing off. When her back is turned for a minute, he takes Dorian's hand and presses a quick kiss to his cheek, murmuring, "I'm not going anywhere."

Then he turns back to Mrs. Adaar and makes more small talk, as if he didn't just casually knock Dorian's world askew. Of course, he's been doing that since they met, so maybe Dorian should be used to it by now.

Bull and Cass arrive then, thank god, and Dorian manages to get his shit together before he's expected to contribute something useful to the conversation.

Cassandra and Cullen bond almost instantly, to the point where Dorian might actually be worried if Cullen's hand wasn't holding his through most of the evening, thumb stroking lightly over his knuckles. Bull gives him an amused look as they're finishing dinner, his gaze flicking to their joined hands and then back to meet Dorian's eyes. Dorian moves his other hand to a place where only Bull can see it and flips him off, which makes Bull grin and reach to twine his fingers through Cassandra's.

It would be nauseating, if he wasn't too busy trying not to float away.

He's still riding that high when they get home, and it's enough to keep him awake long after Cullen has fallen asleep. Lying in the dark marveling at the steady breathing beside him, he's suddenly reminded of Cullen's earlier comment, the one he wouldn't repeat, and Dorian reaches for his phone. He can't remember the exact name of the poem, but as he types "Robert Frost brook poem" into the search, Google helps him out and in seconds, he's skimming through "Hyla Brook."

It's nice enough, Dorian supposes as he frowns at the opening lines, but he's not much for nature poetry, or for poetry in general. History is more his thing, something that might actually be useful. He reads on, hoping for something that makes sense in the context of the conversation they were having. It's still not clicking, and he's almost to the end...

The last line hits him like the first drop on a roller coaster. Movements jerky, he turns off his phone and tosses it on the floor, as if he was looking at porn and his XO just walked by. Except if that were the case, he'd have probably offered to share, and he has absolutely no desire to share what he's just read, not with anyone, in case the act of sharing somehow destroys it. He lies in the dark, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, that one line on continuous replay in his head.

_"We love the things we love for what they are."_

It's impossible and perfect at the same time. In Dorian's experience, nobody loves like that, and plenty of people don't even bother to try. Playing the words in his head in Cullen's voice makes his chest ache as much as it did this morning at breakfast, when Cullen asked if he wanted to come for Christmas. Dorian wants to say yes to that, to everything Cullen's offering him, but he can't move beyond the memories of every past disaster he's subjected himself to. "Don't get attached," Bull would tell him, and every time, Dorian would ignore him, and every time, eventually, he would regret it.

Bull hasn't said that about Cullen, though.

Dorian slides out of bed and finds his pants and phone in the dark, waiting until he's out in the hallway with the bedroom door shut before zipping up. Standing at the top of the stairs, he almost turns around and goes back to bed. He could wrap himself in Cullen's warmth and go back to sleep, or roll him onto his back and suck him until he wakes up, or just lie there watching him sleep. Anything but ask Bull the question that could ruin everything.

The first step down the stairs feels a lot like falling, but he keeps his balance and makes it all the way to the first floor without hurting himself or anything else. On his way by, he flips the thermostat up a few degrees, silent acknowledgement that he's not going back to bed any time soon. He turns his phone back on, only to find the poem still staring at him, the last thing he was looking at before he turned the screen off. He closes the browser quickly and flips over to his contacts. The kitchen is the room farthest from the stairs, so he takes his phone there and begins to make himself a cup of coffee while he waits for Bull to pick up.

"Good morning, Sparkler," Bull says dryly, and for the first time, Dorian looks at a clock, which informs him that it's 3:23.

"Shit," he says. The next words slip out, an involuntary social nicety as inane as the answer is obvious. "Did I wake you?"

"Nah," Bull says around a yawn, "I had to get up anyway to answer the phone. What's up?" Around and under his voice is the sound of him getting out of bed.

Dorian's throat closes, trapping words and breath both. The surface of the water in his mug trembles, and he shoves it in the microwave, hitting buttons blindly until the stupid machine starts up. He forces air into his lungs as he watches the mug spin slowly around.

"Dorian," Bull says at last, "I love you dearly, but spit it out so I can go back to my nice warm bed and my nice warm girlfriend." There's another pause, then Bull asks shrewdly, "How's Cullen?"

Dorian closes his eyes and shoves the words out, all in a rush. "You always tell me not to get attached."

"Because you usually sleep with assholes," Bull says immediately, in the tone of a man still waiting for the real question.

"And Cullen's not an asshole."

"Did you really wake me up at 3:30 in the morning to state the obvious?"

Dorian shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He hears Cass in the background, her voice worried. Bull answers without bothering to cover the phone, "He's just having an existential crisis. Go back to sleep, one of us might as well get some."

"My, someone's been learning new words," Dorian says, because it's expected, and because it delays their return to the real conversation just a little longer.

"Those Word-a-Day calendars are quite meritorious. Did you actually need _me_ , or did you just need somebody to tell you what you already know?"

"I need you," Dorian says, and they're some of the hardest words he's ever said. "Tell me I'm not being an idiot."

"You know how to read people, Sparkler. You know how I know that? Because nobody picks that many assholes in a row by accident, whatever bullshit they tell other people. Which means you can tell a decent guy when you meet one. So congratulations. Try not to fuck it up, okay?"

"What if I do? Do you think we can make this work?" Dorian's panic is still heavy in his chest, but he has enough self-awareness left to wince at how pathetic he sounds.

"Fucking hell, man, do I look like a damn psychic? He's a decent guy, you're a decent guy when you pull your head out of your ass, give it a shot and see what happens."

"Plenty of decent people still manage to fuck up their relationships."

"Yeah they do, but two adults have a lot better chance than one asshole and one fucked up kid."

"Hey!" That stings, mostly because it's true.

"If you didn't want my opinion, why'd you call me?" Bull demands.

"Maybe I was hoping for cookies and a pat on the ass?"

"You want that, call back in about three hours."

Dorian looks up at the microwave, distantly aware that it should have finished by now, and realizes he set it for twenty minutes instead of two. The water is boiling madly, splashing everywhere, and he gets a faceful of steam when he pops the door open hurriedly.

As he dumps instant coffee into the water, he says, "This scares the shit out of me."

Bull sighs, and Dorian pictures him pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dorian," he says, then stops. There's the sound of him sucking on his teeth before he says, "You know what blew me away?"

"What?" Dorian says warily.

"That you told him about your parents and their bullshit."

"He kept poking."

"Yeah, and of course you've never been any damn good at changing the subject." The sarcasm in Bull's voice is thick. "I know you. If you didn't want to tell him, you'd've come up with a way around it, or lied, or just flat out told him to fuck off, but you didn't."

"I trust him," Dorian says quietly, as he stirs another spoonful of coffee into his mug.

"You want this relationship to work? There's your answer."

"I've been wrong before."

"No," Bull says sharply, "you haven't. You went looking for assholes, and you found them, and you made yourself ignore all the red flags waving everywhere, but I was there for most of your disasters, and I never saw you trust any of them with anything. Fuck me, you wouldn't even let half of them bring you a drink unless it was still sealed when it hit your hands. You got attached to them, Christ only knows why, but you didn't trust them."

It's not exactly warm and fuzzy, but then, Dorian will know he's being patronized the day Bull hands him any lines that could be described that way. "Thanks," he says, and adds another spoonful of instant coffee to his mug, stirring it idly.

"What I'm here for." His tone softens marginally. "What set you off, anyway? Did the Chief use the L-word?" There's a light touch of mockery on the end of the sentence. One of the things Dorian's always appreciated about Bull is that he's never treated love and commitment like they're a straightjacket and a padded cell.

"Indirectly," Dorian admits, a little embarrassed. "He quoted a poem at me. Only, I had to look it up to figure it out, because he was back-pedaling almost as soon as he said it."

"Maybe because he worried it would freak you out?" Bull says. "So much you might, oh I don't know, call people in the middle of the night?"

"Humor. Har."

"Or so much you might run?" Bull asks, deadly serious now, and Dorian sighs.

"He's sleeping in my bed, I'd have a hard time running away."

"There's lots of ways to run away, and you know it. Don't be a pain in my ass."

"Try it, you might like it."

"I've got Cass for that. And speaking of Cass, she's probably getting lonely. You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I think so." Dorian leans his forehead against the cabinet above the sink. "Thanks," he says again, then with more force, "Thank you."

"Hey. I don't say it a lot, seein' as we're manly men and all, but I love you. You need anything, you call me. Even if it is three in the morning."

"I...love you, too," Dorian says. It's surprisingly hard to say. His parents were never big on public displays of affection, even before all the affection died.

"See, that wasn't so hard," Bull says, but his tone is gentle. "Practice a little, you'll be fine."

With that, he ends the call, and Dorian trades his phone for his mug. The coffee is way too strong, and he now has vague memories of adding at least three spoonfuls of powder instead of one, but he drinks it anyway. He makes himself a second cup without screwing up either the microwave or the proportions this time, and carries it out to the back porch to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the entire text of "Hyla Brook" for anyone who wants it. You can see why Dorian might have been confused right up until the end. :)
> 
> By June our brook’s run out of song and speed.  
> Sought for much after that, it will be found  
> Either to have gone groping underground  
> (And taken with it all the Hyla breed  
> That shouted in the mist a month ago,  
> Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)—  
> Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,  
> Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent  
> Even against the way its waters went.  
> Its bed is left a faded paper sheet  
> Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—  
> A brook to none but who remember long.  
> This as it will be seen is other far  
> Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.  
> We love the things we love for what they are.


	27. Now I'm a Believer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought love was  
> Only true in fairy tales  
> Meant for someone else  
> But not for me  
> Love was out to get me  
> That's the way it seemed  
> Disappointment haunted  
> All my dreams
> 
> And then I saw her face  
> Now I'm a believer  
> Not a trace  
> Of doubt in my mind  
> I'm in love  
> I'm a believer  
> I couldn't leave her  
> If I tried
> 
> Neil Diamond, "I'm a Believer" (I like Smash Mouth's version best, honestly, but I try to label songs with the person who actually wrote the lyrics.)  
> *****************************  
> I meant to post this chapter at the same time as I posted the previous one, but by the time I got done editing 7500 freakin' words, I was already late for work (and I missed some mistakes anyway, argh).
> 
> If you're allergic to schmoop, you'll want to keep the Benadryl close at hand for this chapter. Of course, if you're allergic to schmoop, you probably keeled over from anaphylactic shock several chapters ago, so it doesn't matter!

It's after five by the time he goes back upstairs, and he sets all his worries aside as he crawls back into bed. Cullen rolls toward him, still half asleep, and murmurs, "Everything okay?"

"Just fine," Dorian says, leaning down to kiss him.

Cullen kisses him back sleepily, tongue sliding across his lips.

"Don't start something you're not prepared to finish." Dorian smiles down into the half-open eyes beneath him, because it turns out that a sleepy Cullen is also an incredibly sexy Cullen.

"Who says I'm not prepared to finish it?" He still doesn't look completely awake as he pulls Dorian on top of him, but his dick is getting hard. "Unless _you_ want to get some sleep."

"I can sleep when I'm dead," Dorian says, and leans down for another kiss. He could just stay like this for hours, doing nothing but feeling Cullen's lips and tongue against his, listening to Cullen breathe too fast against his mouth. Then Cullen arches up into him, and there are a lot of other things Dorian wants to do, too.

"Fuck me," Cullen whispers, and Dorian is happy to oblige. He doesn't even have to move to reach the lube, still on the bedside table from before.

They stay face-to-face, Dorian sliding into him in slow, steady strokes that have Cullen moaning within seconds. His eyes may be sleepy, but they're locked on Dorian's face, and the heat in them is more than sex. Dorian drinks in the sight of him, body trembling as they rock together slowly, mouth moving on silent prayers. The original plan had been to suck him off, but Dorian takes his cock in one hand instead so he can watch the pleasure building until it explodes and Cullen's body squeezes around his cock. Not until Cullen's eyes open again does he increase his pace, needing only a few more strokes before his own orgasm knocks him breathless.

As he lowers himself carefully down to lie on top of Cullen, Dorian holds back the words he can feel on his lips. Barely post-orgasm isn't the time, not if he wants Cullen to hear something other than "I like to fuck you, and I think this will make you stay." Dorian would know. He's heard "I love you" often enough in these circumstances to understand what it really means.

Cullen is half asleep beneath him, and his steady breathing matches the chant in Dorian's head: _Tell him, tell him, tell him._ The words stick, though, and Dorian just lies there quietly until Cullen mumbles something about breakfast and showers.

"Still no sharing?" Dorian teases, because that's easier than listening to his new, unsought mantra.

Cullen declines with a snort, and Dorian leaves him in the bed to go take his own shower. When he finishes, Cullen is already in the bathroom ready to trade, and Dorian is struck by the realization that he gets to do this every morning from now on. Cullen will be _here_ , with him, all the time.

The chant starts back up in his head, distracting him as he gets dressed and goes back downstairs to the kitchen. He gets the coffee maker started, but then he just stands there, staring blankly into space. Not until he hears Cullen's voice calling something, the words indistinct, does he snap out of his thoughts and look around for something to eat.

There's Cullen's voice again, still too far away for Dorian to make out the words. He opens the fridge and surveys the wasteland. He never did go shopping yesterday.

With his head still inside, he calls, "You want to eat cereal, or go out again? Because there's fuck all else to eat around here." His gaze falls on the plastic bag holding the leftover pizza, and he pulls it out, straightening with a triumphant grin. "Breakfast of champions!" he crows, then turns to find Cullen standing in the dining room, cell phone to his ear and a pained expression on his face.

There's a burst of chatter from the phone, and Dorian moves closer, trying to hear. Cullen points a warning finger at him, his expression promising an extended and painful demise when he gets off the phone, except that there's now also a glint of amusement under it. Dorian tries to look contrite, even as his brain starts to grind through fun ways to distract Cullen from murder.

Cullen winces and sighs. "Yes, Mama, that was a man's voice." Dorian still can't make out the words in the response, but the voice on the other end is clearly excited this time.

"Yes," Cullen says patiently. "Yes, he's feeding me breakfast." The look he gives Dorian says it'd better be something better than cereal or cold pizza, to make up for the bus he just pushed Cullen under. "Yes, it means exactly what you think it means."

There's something endearing about a forty-year-old man calling his mother "Mama," Dorian decides. Or at least, there is when Cullen's doing it. Which is the point where Dorian realizes he's well and truly fucked. That he doesn't give a shit only confirms it.

The excited voice on the other end goes on a lot longer this time. Cullen opens his mouth twice, only to close it without speaking, as if his mother asked him a question without giving him a chance to answer. Eventually, the voice winds down, ending with the rising inflection of another question.

Cullen takes a deep breath and rattles off, "Dorian Pavus, Seattle, old enough, and _no_. Jesus, Mama." A sharp reprimand Dorian doesn't need words to understand. Cullen winces again. "Sorry."

The accent that's been missing up until now is beginning to show through, Dorian notices.

Another question, and this one makes Cullen's face tight and grim. "I met him this summer. When I was...out of the country." Dorian, no longer amused, closes the last distance between them to slide his arms around Cullen's waist. Under his ear, Cullen's heart beats too fast, and the hand he threads through Dorian's hair grips a little too hard. "He was..." Cullen stops, starts over. "He helped me get home. We got to talking, after we got back, and we...hit it off."

There's silence on the other end of the line, then a short sentence in a commanding voice.

"No," Cullen says, and gets a sharp answer from his mother. Dorian still can't make out words, not with Cullen's heart pounding in his ear, but he recognizes the sound of a name, said as only a mother can say it. "Mama," Cullen says warningly, and then his shoulders slump at her response.

To Dorian's surprise, Cullen pushes him gently away and holds out the phone. "She wants to talk to you," he says, in a tone of voice usually reserved for discussions of terminal cancer.

More than a little intimidated, Dorian takes the phone and puts it gingerly to his ear. "Yes, ma'am?" A little extra politeness can't hurt.

"Dorian?" a woman says, her accent pure deep South.

"Yes, ma'am," he says again, then jerks the phone away from his ear as she begins to sob. His attempts to hand the phone back to Cullen are unsuccessful: the bastard puts both hands in the air and shakes his head vehemently. Dorian gives him a look and puts the phone back to his ear.

 _Get it together, Pavus,_ he tells himself. As close as Cullen is with his family, Cullen's mother could break their relationship if she puts her mind to it. He can usually charm just about anyone, but this whole situation has him rattled. He's not used to people bursting into tears at the sound of his voice.

"Ummm, sorry?" he tries.

"No, no," she says, and he realizes she's laughing while she's crying. "I'm the one who should be sayin' sorry. You brought my baby home..." Her voice cracks, and Dorian has to swallow an unexpected lump in his own throat.

"Not by myself," he says.

"Pshaw," she says, to Dorian's bemusement. He didn't think people actually said that. "By yourself or not, you helped him."

What the hell is he supposed to say to that? "I'm...glad I could."

She takes a deep, deep breath and lets it out slowly. Before Dorian can think of something to fill the increasingly-awkward silence, she says, "When they told me he was MIA _again_ , you can't know what that felt like." Her voice is pitched low, like it's the only way she can keep it from shaking. "And the waiting is just..."

There's a pause, then another deep breath before she goes on. "Every time the phone rang or someone knocked on the door, I wanted to be sick, and it was always some stupid salesman or a neighbor come to visit, and I wanted to be sick all over again, because I still didn't _know_. I never thought I'd have to go through that again, and it's so much worse the second time around, because I just knew I wasn't gonna be lucky enough to get him back _twice_. And when he called from Landstuhl, it was like...like..." Her voice is cracking again, and she swallows hard enough he can hear it over the phone.

"I know," Dorian says, appalled to realize he's got tears in his own eyes. Cullen is watching him, arms crossed over his chest and a faint smile on his face. "I know," Dorian says again. "A friend of mine was MIA for a couple months." The worst months of his life, bar none, wondering where Bull was and what was happening to him. Even the months after Bull was home, struggling to put himself back together, weren't as bad as the months of not knowing.

"Did he come home?" she asks.

"Yes, ma'am," Dorian says. "He was with me in..." He cuts himself off with a cough, frustrated by all the things he's not allowed to talk about, but she seems to understand.

"So my baby was in good hands," she says, then makes a clucking noise with her tongue. "I'm sorry, you must think me such a silly old woman, getting all overwrought."

"I...no, ma'am." If anything, he's in awe of her, that she's still standing after everything that's happened: her husband a POW for two years, and her son a POW himself and then MIA ten years later. Dorian tries to imagine if he'd had to wait two years to get Bull back, or waiting even a few weeks to get Cullen back, and he can't do it. He doesn't bother trying to imagine doing it two more times after that, because the idea leaves him sick.

"I think silly is the last word I'd choose," he says, then smiles, making sure she can hear it in his voice. "Actually, overwrought is probably the last word. Silly would be second-to-last."

She laughs, a little breathlessly, and he hears her blow her nose. "You'll take good care of my baby?" she asks, and her voice is steadier, now they're back on somewhat less treacherous ground.

"If he lets me," Dorian says. Cullen raises his eyebrows questioningly, but Dorian just smiles at him without explaining. Serves him right.

"He never was real good at that," she allows. "But he's a good man, and I don't just say it 'cause he's my son and I love him."

"Well, I agree with you," Dorian says, meeting Cullen's eyes deliberately, the _Tell him tell him tell him_ chorus screaming in his head. "But I'm not exactly unbiased here, either, seeing as I love him, too."

Whatever Cullen's mother says, Dorian isn't listening. Instead, he's smiling as he watches half a dozen emotions cross Cullen's face.

Then Cullen takes the phone gently out of his hand and says into it, "Mama, we haven't had breakfast yet, so I really need to go." With his free hand, he tucks Dorian's head down under his chin, listening to whatever his mother is saying. After almost a minute, in which she doesn't seem to stop for breath, Cullen huffs out a sigh in response to something. "Yeah, okay, okay. I'll ask, but most people have plans by now, you know."

Dorian moves his head out of Cullen's grip to put his mouth by the phone, knowing what the question is without needing Cullen to repeat it. "I'd love to come to Christmas, Mrs. Rutherford." Suddenly, it doesn't seem like nearly as big a deal as it did yesterday at breakfast.

"You're going to regret that," Cullen warns, but he's smiling as Dorian takes a half step back to see his face. "It's not Christmas in our family if you can still see the tree under all the presents, and if you think she won't find a shit-load of stuff to give you, even on short notice, you're out of your mind."

"Cullen Stanton Rutherford!" It comes clearly over the phone, and Dorian laughs as Cullen apologizes yet again.

Another question, her voice back down where Dorian can't make it out, but he can guess based on Cullen's answer. "We'll play it by ear, but I guess sometime around the twentieth?" He frowns thoughtfully at Dorian, and says, "Might be better if the wine stayed on the shelf this year."

 _Oh god,_ Dorian thinks. That's a great start to his relationship with Cullen's family, especially when it isn't necessary. When he shakes his head vehemently at Cullen, the frown deepens, and Cullen puts the phone on mute.

"Please don't," Dorian says, before Cullen can speak. "Unless someone is going to shove it at me, it's fine. Really. I mean, we're not talking six bottles of wine per person, right?"

"Well, my Uncle Jimmy will bring a fifth of Johnny Walker Black, but otherwise, no, nobody's going to walk away drunk. And Jimmy won't want to share anyway."

"Then it's _fine_ ," Dorian says, trying to make Cullen believe him.

"You do know that if I tell her you're an Orthodox Jewish vegan, she'll buy all new plates and serve tofurky?"

Dorian can't control a laugh. "Well then for god's sake, don't tell her that, because I wouldn't inflict a tofurky on my worst enemy."

Cullen looks skeptical, and suddenly Dorian realizes why he's fixated on the wine. "It's not like it is for you, with food," Dorian says. "Not anymore." Which is absolutely true, and he almost stops there, but then forces himself to go on. "It would help if _you_ didn't drink, though." The words come out more quietly than he meant them to, and he wonders for a second if he's just lost any hope of convincing Cullen that the Rutherford Christmas doesn't need to be alcohol free.

But Cullen just nods slowly, and unmutes the phone. "Okay, scratch that last one," he says. His tone is casual, but the look on his face when he touches Dorian's cheek is anything but.

_We love the things we love for what they are._

Dorian kisses him as quietly as possible and heads back to the kitchen as Cullen wanders in the other direction, making distracted noises into the phone. When he's out of sight, Dorian covers his face with his hands for a second, drawing in deep breaths to get himself back under control. Between Cullen and his mother, Dorian's closer to crying than he's been in a long time, and even if it's for all the best reasons, he really doesn't want Cullen to walk into the kitchen and find him blubbering. Awkward, definitely.

It takes Cullen five minutes and another half dozen repeats of "Yes, Mama" said in progressively more amused tones, but he's finally off the phone, about the time Dorian realizes that he might have his emotions under control, but he still doesn't have a solid plan for how to bring the conversation back to the one he wanted to have. He doesn't have time to settle on anything before Cullen is standing in the doorway, looking at Dorian and rubbing the back of his neck.

Bull was wrong about one thing: practice isn't making it easier. Having said the words once, it's harder now, as if there's a weight of expectation on them that wasn't there before.

Dorian can think of a couple ways to pick up the conversation, and it's hard to know which one is right. Well, he's pretty sure suggesting they skip breakfast and go back to bed is a bad idea in the long run, no matter how satisfying it would be for the next hour. If he wants this to be about more than just sex, then he has to do something to make it that way. At the same time, he can't quite spit out the words he needs to say into the heavy silence that's descended on the kitchen.

"Coffee?" he asks instead.

"God, yes," Cullen breathes, and Dorian laughs, the tension broken. "And I guess I should apologize for throwing you to the wolves like that."

"Nothing to apologize for," Dorian says as he fills another mug. "I like her. Besides, she's just trying to take care of you, and I can hardly object to that."

"I can," Cullen says with a smile, taking the mug. He inhales with his eyes closed, a beatific expression on his face that makes Dorian think of several much more exciting things. Rather than focus on any of them, he knocks back the last of his own coffee and prods his brain unsuccessfully for a plan.

He lowers his mug to find Cullen watching him, and it just falls out of his mouth. "I love you." As soon as the words are out, he nearly brains himself with his mug trying to cover his face. "That was not how I meant to say that."

"How did you mean to say it?" Cullen asks, his voice serious.

 _Don't fuck this up,_ Dorian tells himself. He takes one deep breath for courage and sets his mug down before he does himself any permanent damage. Two steps and he can take Cullen's mug away from him and set it on the counter, quickly, before the shaking in his hands is too obvious. Cullen's cheeks are smooth under his palms, the skin freshly shaved.

"I love you." This time, the words _are_ a little easier to say. "I meant it, earlier."

Cullen smiles at him. "Sometimes it's hard to tell with you, whether you're just saying something to get a rise out of someone."

"I know," Dorian says. "There's a lot I'll joke about, but not that. Never that." He kisses Cullen once, quickly, and says it again. "I love you."

"I love you, too," Cullen says, then his smile turns wicked. "Though I can't believe you told my mother first."

"At least I didn't make you Google it," Dorian fires back, and Cullen laughs, warm and low. "Next time you decide to recite poetry at me, say it loud enough for me to hear."

"Deal," he says, and draws Dorian closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! I wrote a story in which all participants in the relationship actually say "I love you"! Out loud! In those words! To each other! Go me!
> 
> Thank you all so much for keeping me company through this, it's been more fun than is probably legal! I will totally write y'all Cullen/Dorian fake marriage trash, though it might be a month or more before I start posting anything on that.
> 
> And...how badly would people gag if I wrote an epilogue/mini-sequel thing to this story, with Cullen and Dorian at the Rutherford family Christmas? Because I kinda want to, but I know my fluff tolerance is pretty high.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Only True in Fairy Tales](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394233) by [SeekinTroubles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekinTroubles/pseuds/SeekinTroubles)




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